case and Nelson is being held in U.S. custody without
bond.
The situation creates an unusual dilemma for D.C.
Police investigators. “It allows us to close a murder
investigation,” said Lt. Giovanna Maglione, head of
the Hate Crimes Unit, “but we’re obviously very
concerned about Felicia Hilliard’s well-being.”
Maglione refused to comment on the nature
of the evidence against Nelson, except to say that
she’s “confident that he is responsible for the death
of Natasha Hilliard.”
Nelson was arrested in the lobby of this newspaper
yesterday and charged with assaulting a reporter.
Items found on his person and in his vehicle tied him
to the Hilliard murder. Ironically, at the time of
his arrest, investigators in the Hate Crimes Unit
had identified him as a “person of interest” in their
investigation of the Hilliard, but had only a
description of him and his vehicle.
“The arresting officers followed procedure,” said
Police Chief Benjamin Jefferson. “The suspect used
hate language when he attacked the reporter, so the
incident was reported to HCU, which already was
looking for him. This is the kind of cooperation I
expect from officers in this Department.”
Hilliard was killed after leaving The Snatch,
a popular night club on Lander Street in the Mid-
Town district that caters to lesbians. Sources say
that Nelson had stalked Hilliard in the past, and
may have followed her to the club. However,
because he is in Federal custody, D.C. police
have no access to Nelson and cannot question
him further about the Natasha Hilliard
homicide.
Nelson, a native of Nashville, Tennessee,
has no prior criminal record. He is a
graduate student in Philosophy and has,
according to friends, studied Eastern religion
and philosophy in the Middle East.
MURDER SUSPECT ATTACKS REPORTER
By R.J. Jones
Staff Writer
M. Montgomery Patterson, a reporter at this
newspaper, was attacked yesterday afternoon by
murder suspect Michael Nelson, in the lobby of the
newspaper. Nelson had asked to see Patterson,
claiming to have information about the murder of
Natasha Hilliard, a story that Patterson has covered.
“I went down to the lobby to meet him. He told
me to stop writing about Natasha,” Patterson said.
“He called homosexuality an abomination. I turned
to walk away from him, and he hit me in the back.”
Patterson says she swung her briefcase at
Nelson, and he hit her again. At that point, building
security guards and D.C. Police officers subdued
Nelson, who was forcibly carried from the
building, calling for “Death to infidels” and
“Death to homosexuals.”
Patterson’s injuries were not serious, and,
according to her editors, she will not stop
writing about the Hilliard story. The paper
has pressed charges against Nelson for the
assault on of one of its employees on its property.
“There are fifteen messages from Ray Washington,” Eric said as he hung up wrote down the date and time of the most recent one. “We’ll never know if anybody else tried to call us last night because Ray used up all our message minutes.”
Linda walked over to where Eric was sitting and he gave her the notepad. “He said nothing about giving up any names? All those calls are about him demanding that his business be re-opened?” Linda went to her desk, snatched up the receiver, and punched in a number. “This is Officer Lopez of the Hate Crimes Unit...no, you listen to me, Mr. Washington: The Police Department did not close your business, the Buildings and Permits Department did and that’s who you should be calling. You only call us if you have information regarding the rape of Joyce Brown, and we’d appreciate your assistance in that matter. Thank you and have a good day.”
Linda slammed the receiver into the cradle so hard that it bounced back out and skittered across the desk, the cord preventing it from landing on the floor. Tim retrieved the phone then wrapped Linda in a big, quick hug.
Cassie took Linda by the arms, guided her to her desk, sat her down, lifted the top off her container of coffee, and gave her the cup. “Drink, Hermana. The caffeine’ll help calm you down, chill you out.”
Bobby laughed. “Nobody but you, Cassandra, would give somebody a shot of caffeine to calm their nerves. Any more stimulation and Lopez’ll go over to Lander Street and shoot the son of a bitch.”
“I’ll drive,” Kenny said. “The least I can do for such a good cause. Let me know when you’re ready to leave, Linda.”
“I’ll ride shotgun,” Alice said, opening her own coffee and propping her long legs up on the corner of the desk.
Linda sipped her coffee. “Thanks, guys.” Then she looked over at Gianna, seated behind her desk, watching, listening, not participating, as she often did, freeing them up to think and express freely. “Only reason I don’t go shoot his ass, Boss, is it would get you in trouble.”
“Hell, Linda, I haven’t been in any trouble lately—”
The hoots and guffaws broke the tension. They all relaxed.
Gianna got up and began to pace, a good sign for her; it meant that she was ready to be back in action. “You think he lied to you about the men he was talking to the night Joyce was raped?”
“He did lie, the son of a bitch! Nobody by those names lived at any of the addresses he gave up, none of the other regulars ever heard of these guys, and we can’t seem to get a good grip on Washington himself. His background checks are...what’s that word you like, Bobby, the one that means not quite right?”
“Hinctey?”
“That’s the one. Washington’s background checks come up hinctey.”
Kenny was rustling through his files and folders, ready to supply the answers to the question the Boss was about to ask. She nodded at him. “The name on his business license is Raymond Lee Washington. The name on his drivers license is Ray L. Washington, Jr., DOB 25 March 1978. The name on his tax return is Raymond L. Washington, DOB 20 September 1948. The home address he gave us, the one on the drivers license, is on Harris Boulevard, across the River in Anacostia, but the phone number he uses, the one Linda just called, is a Northeast exchange, over in Brookland, and it’s not a cell phone. We haven’t had a chance to check that address yet, Boss.”
Gianna looked from Linda to Bobby. Linda answered the question. “The man we know as Ray Washington looks a lot closer to the 1978 DOB than the 1948 one.”
“I’ve got a question.” Bobby said. “Does somebody have to be gay to own a gay bar?”
Tim broke down into his Queen Routine. “Not if you’re thinking of changing professions, Big Boy.”
Bobby actually blushed. “I’ve gotta learn to stop giving you these openings—” He realized what he’d said and threw his hands up in surrender. Linda came to his rescue.
“What Officer Gilliam keeps trying to convey is the fact that we don’t think that Ray Washington is gay. Not that he’d have to be to own a gay bar—”
“But it sure would help,” Cassie said. “What makes you think he’s not?”
“No gay vibe,” Kenny said.
“There’s a such thing as a gay vibe?” Cassie’s question was a challenge.
Kenny and Linda both looked sideways at Tim.
“Whatever do you mean to suggest?” he lisped.
Gianna got them under control, though not too tightly. She neede
d the release as much as they did. The events of the previous evening had wrung them all dry, especially the not knowing the fate of Felicia Hilliard and not being able to do a damn thing about it. Michael Nelson had sent for an Imam and a minister and had refused to utter another word. Nothing they could do about that: The man had a right not to talk, but every one of them wished they’d pushed forward on second interviews much sooner than they had. Especially Gianna.
“Tim notwithstanding, are you saying you can tell somebody’s gay by looking at him?” Gianna asked, making eye contact with each of them.
Alice answered before Kenny or Linda could. “I know exactly what they’re saying, Lieutenant, and I agree with them. Bartenders, straight or gay, they establish a rapport with their customers, whether they’re first timers or regulars. This Ray Washington guy, he just serves drinks. He’s polite enough, but there’s no rapport, no connection to the people buying the drinks.”
“How would you describe him, Alice?” Gianna asked.
She thought for a second. “Watchful. And careful.”
“Pull all the paper on Washington, on the bar. Who owns the building, by the way? Washington?”
Linda shook her head. “A corporation.”
“Find out who the corporation is, who the principals are. Run Washington through every system available. We have his tax returns so that means we have his Social. I want to know everything about this guy, down to the brands of toothpaste and deodorant he uses. And if there are two Ray Washingtons, I want the same info on both, and if the son is fronting for the father, I want to know why. And folks? I want to know today. Pull out every stop, take short cuts, be demanding, be polite, kiss ass, kick ass—I don’t care what you have to do. I don’t want to be surprised or blind sided by this character.”
“We’re going to need you to input your WASIS access code,” Eric said. The Washington Area Shared Information System was a computerized data bank of information on crime and criminals that combined the law enforcement efforts of every agency in Metropolitan D.C., and there were lots of them. The system contained details from every report submitted during the investigation of every crime in D.C. and the Maryland and Virginia suburbs, details being the operative word: Names, addresses, phone numbers, license plate numbers, drivers license numbers, and birth dates of every person charged with a crime, every victim of a crime, every person interviewed during the course of an investigation, and information on any other crimes a suspect was connected. Because the information was so invasive, a certain level of authority was required to access it. There were ten levels of authority. Gianna had eight levels of clearance. Whoever Ray Washington was, if he was suspect of pissing in the shrubbery in the D.C. metropolitan area, they’d find out about it.
“Anything else?” Gianna asked, done inputting her code into the computer.
“There is one thing bothering me, Lieutenant.”
Gianna looked directly at Alice. If there was something bothering her, Gianna certainly wanted to know about it. Alice was a seasoned cop, with experience on several details and extensive undercover placement and Gianna trusted her instincts.
“There’s this one guy who hangs out in the Pink Panther, something about him is too familiar. Not like he’s a perp I’ve made before, and it’s not just that I think he’s straight, which I do. It’s that he feels, well, like a cop.”
Kenny swiveled away from his computer and toward Alice so fast that his chair rolled halfway across the room. Gianna was still looking at Alice, who was so still she looked frozen. That was a hell of a thing for one cop to say about another one. Only Bobby was in motion. He’d jumped to his feet and was stalking up and down the room shaking a fist. Now all eyes were on him instead of on Alice. He was pointing a finger, jabbing the air with it, as if making a point. He finally got to it. “Yes!” he said, pumping the air with his fist. “Yes! That makes sense, Boss. It finally makes sense.”
“Bobby. I have no idea what you’re talking about. Relax and take it from the top.” To help him calm down, Gianna sat at her desk, leaned forward, and folded her hands.
“That night we were at The Snatch, the first night. Miss Phillips, Darlene, described two cars that had cruised by threatening them. When we were cruising the block, Tim and me, we saw one of those cars and we scoped ‘em out pretty good. One of ‘em looked familiar to me, just like what Alice was saying: Not familiar like I’d busted him but familiar like...what she just said...and that’s it! I was at the Academy with that dude! He was a cop, I’m sure of it. And if I look at my class photo I can tell you his name.”
Gianna got up. She wasn’t liking this at all. Alice and Bobby were as different externally as two people could be: She cool, calm and collected, he excitable and mercurial; but internally they were serious, dedicated cops who didn’t make the kind of mistake this would be if they were wrong. But if they were right...
“And another thing, Boss,” Bobby said. He was cracking his knuckles and both Gianna and Alice winced. He stopped. “As I’m thinking about this cop angle, the way Ray Washington’s been treating us? We’ve thinking it was cop-hating hostility, right, Linda? But it’s not! It’s familiar, you know? Street punks don’t talk to us the way this guy does. They know we’ll feed ‘em their fuckin’ teeth, but this Washington character, he’s not scared of us! He talks trash to us like he talks trash to cops all the time. Does that make sense?”
Gianna understood what he meant but it didn’t make a damn bit of sense. “Get his name, Bobby, and find out if he’s still on the job and where he’s assigned. I’ll check with Inspector Davis and make sure your guy isn’t one of his. Alice—”
“He’s not, Lieutenant. I made Mid-Town’s undercovers and we’ve been checking out each other. No, this guy I’m talking about is in with Ray Washington.”
Gianna didn’t like the sound of this at all. She looked at her watch and slipped her jacket on. “I’m out of here for a couple of hours, but I’ll be close at hand if you need me, phone and beeper both on.” She started for the door, then turned back. “Make sure we know where Mr. Washington is at all times, in case we need to... talk to him.”
And she was out the door, glad for the time alone, even though it would be short-lived. Lunch with Mimi, Baby Doll and Terry at the Chinese restaurant across the street from the paper. She didn’t really have time for lunch but she needed to eat, she needed to see Mimi, and she really wanted to know what Terry had to tell her.
The restaurant wasn’t that far from police headquarters in terms of miles, but downtown traffic could make it feel like the other side of the world. That’s why they’d set the meet for the end of the lunch rush, so traffic wouldn’t be too terrible and the place wouldn’t be too crowded. She put her police ID in the windshield and parked in front of the place so she could leave quickly if that became necessary. Too bad she couldn’t plan and arrange cases to work out so conveniently.
She was the last to arrive. The big dining room was full and waiters still served food, but the kitchen was closed to orders. Gianna could see all the cooks, seated at tables in the far back corner, having their own meals. And she spied Mimi’s head full of curly ringlets in one of the semi-private alcoves. She surprised Baby with a hug and a comment on how good she looked, and Baby loved every second of it. Mimi, on the other hand, didn’t look so good. An ugly bruise colored one side of her face, she held herself stiffly, and her eyes were dull, reflecting the pain she was in. Gianna wanted to hold her. That wasn’t possible. She sat down in the booth next to her, touched her arm gently. “You should be home in bed.”
Before Mimi could respond, their waiter arrived with a platter of steamed dumplings. Gianna’s stomach rumbled. Not only did she need to eat, she was ravenous, unable to remember whether she’d eaten a meal yesterday.
“I ordered orange chicken for you,” Mimi said.
“And what else?” Gianna helped herself to two dumplings.
“You can share my moo shu vegetables.”
“I though
t you said I could share that?” Baby almost whined.
“There’s more than enough. Besides, didn’t you tell me you wouldn’t eat anything that looked like that?”
“A girl can change her mind, you know.” Baby dipped a dumpling into sauce, took a bite, smiled broadly as she chewed, and nodded her head appreciatively.
“Since you like those, we’ll have pot stickers next time,” Mimi said, and watched for Baby’s face to wrinkle in displeasure. It did, but she smoothed out the wrinkles almost immediately. She was learning.
“It’s really nice that Marlene has friends like you all,” Terry said, trying for a smile. But her face wouldn’t cooperate; a look of misery overtook her so quickly that she had to put her fork down. She clearly need to say what she’d come to say, to get the weight of it off her mind.
“What is it, Terry?” Gianna asked, her direct, calming gaze working its magic.
“I overheard these people...I think they know who raped Joyce Brown. I heard these dudes talking, right? They didn’t know I was listening. I was hiding, tell you the truth.” She looked around to make certain nobody was listening to her. She was breathing heavily. Her hands, resting on the table top, clenched into fists. “One of ‘em doing the talking, he’s a cop. Works out of Mid-Town.”
Mimi and Gianna were shocked speechless. Marlene and Terry were frozen in fear: Suppose they’d made a big mistake in trusting a cop. They waited for Gianna to say something while Gianna waited for her brain to clear. Mimi knew better than to say anything—this wasn’t her show—but the silence couldn’t stretch much further without breaking something. The deus ex machina was the arrival of the waiter with the serving cart. He took the empty dumpling platter and loaded the table with heaping, steaming ones of chicken, vegetables, rice, fish. He refilled their water glasses, gave them a fresh pot of tea—Marlene had emptied the first one by herself—bowed, and left. By then, Gianna was ready to talk.
“Thank you, Terry. We need this help, and we appreciate it, and I promise you we’ll try to develop a case without the need to bring you into it.”
Terry’s relief was so intense they all sensed it. She obviously very much wanted to do the right thing, but no way did she want to be out in front of any action that could bring shit to her door, and anything that involved a dirty cop brought shit with it. “I appreciate that, Lieutenant. I want to help. If I can.”
Darkness Descending: A Mimi Patterson/Gianna Maglione Mystery (The Mimi Patterson/Gianna Maglione Mysteries) Page 21
