Murder Inside the Beltway

by Margaret Truman

  “The hell I did.”

  “He claims you threatened to cuff him in a public restaurant to humiliate him.”

  “Morrison is slime, Chief. He gave me a hard time. Hell, we—Detective Hall was with me—accommodated the bastard by meeting him across the river, and then he gives me this talk about how we’re both men and men have needs and…” He waved away the need to continue.

  “Do you have any evidence linking him to the murder?”

  “He was one of the hooker’s clients. He’s on tape. You saw it yourself.”

  “And he’s a respected member of Congress, Hatch. He’s not your everyday, run-of-the-mill john. Have you checked his whereabouts the night of the murder?”

  “He said he had to consult his calendar. He’s supposed to call us today about it. We gave him a break. He’s probably doctoring his calendar as we speak.”

  “That may be,” said Carter, “but lay off him unless you have tangible reasons to label him a suspect.”

  Hatcher’s grunt was noncommittal.

  “Are you hearing me, Detective?”

  “Yeah, I’m hearing you.”

  “I met earlier this morning with Detectives Williams and Shrank.”

  The mention of their names prompted a promise of nausea. It passed.

  “They’re willing to drop their charges against you.”

  “That’s really nice of them,” Hatcher said.

  “I wouldn’t be sarcastic if I were you.”

  Hatcher leaned forward in his chair. “They had no business phonying up a charge against me. They said I’m a racist.” A forced laugh. “Hell, you know me better than that, Chief. So I kid around with them now and then, just for fun, goofing back and forth.”

  “Using racist slang.”

  “Just words, for christsake.”

  “Words are tough, Hatch. Words can kill.”

  “What words ever killed anybody?”

  “Words that came out of Hitler’s mouth rallied millions of Germans to kill Jews.” Carter was known for seldom raising his voice. It had gone up a notch now. “Words send people to wars to kill and die. Words are powerful, Hatch.”

  “I hear you people use them all the time, you know, slang about your people.”

  “ ‘My people,’ ” Carter said, sighing. “I thought we were in this together. ‘My people.’ ‘Your people.’ Hatch, if we use slang, it’s okay because it’s between us. It’s not all right for someone who isn’t one of—‘our people.’ Understood? At any rate, Williams and Shrank are willing to drop their charges if you’ll agree to knock off the racial comments and apologize.”

  Hatcher said nothing.

  “Otherwise,” Carter continued, “they’ll go forward with the charges. Your call, Detective.”

  “Apologize?”

  Carter nodded.

  “Yeah, all right, I’ll say something.”

  “Good. Now, let’s get back to the Curzon case. PA tells me City Paper is doing a piece on it. They’re claiming many members of Congress are nervous about whether the victim kept a black book with the names of her tricks.”

  “If she did, we didn’t find it,” Hatcher said.

  “But you found the tapes.”

  “Right. I brought them to you right after we looked at them.”

  “The guy who’s writing the piece knows about them, Hatch.”

  “The tapes?”

  “Yes. Who leaked it?”

  “Beats me, Chief.”

  “What about… ?” He consulted papers on his desk. “What about Jackson or Hall?”

  “I don’t know. I mean, maybe one of them did. Jackson’s a little bit of a loose cannon, you know?”

  “I didn’t know. Find out for me.”

  “I’ll try. It wasn’t me, that’s for sure. We done? I want to pick up this suspect I told you about.”

  “We’re almost finished, Hatch. The reporter at City Paper is claiming that one of the suspects in the case is a police officer.” He stared intently at Hatcher.

  “Manfredi,” Hatcher said flatly.

  “Who leaked that?”

  Hatcher shrugged.

  “Detective Hall was the one who recognized him from the tapes.”

  “Right. She and Jackson went out to the academy and confronted him. He blew them off.”

  “From now on we’ll handle him internally. Understood? No one approaches him again from your squad.”

  Hatcher was tempted to say what he was thinking, that it had the odor of a police cover-up. Instead, he said, “Yeah, I understand.” He winced.

  “You all right, Hatch?” Carter asked.

  “Me? Yeah, I’m fine.”

  The chief broke out a paternal smile. “You’re pretty close to packing it in, aren’t you, Hatch?”

  “That’s right, pretty close.”

  “There comes a time when retirement makes sense. It’s one of the passages of life. You devote most of your working life to a job, and then it’s time to pass the torch and enjoy the fruits of your labors.”

  Hatcher didn’t know how to respond, so he said nothing.

  “Thanks for coming in,” Carter said. “Try to wrap up this Curzon case as quickly as possible. If you need more manpower, I’ll see what I can do.”

  Hatcher went downstairs, where he bought a candy bar from a vending machine. He walked outside and drew in gulps of air as he devoured the candy. His anger had pushed the headache to the sidelines.

  While sitting with Carter, he’d felt like a schoolboy being admonished by a teacher. How dare he treat me that way? I’ve forgotten more about being a detective than he’ll ever know. Uppity bastard, sitting behind his desk in his white shirt and telling me, Walter Hatcher, how to conduct an investigation. Carter’s caving in to that dirtbag congressman was typical. The world—and the Washington MPD—had sunk to a new low. What did the congressman expect, tea and crumpets and a pat on the head? Morrison was known in Congress as a staunch conservative who championed family values at every turn. Typical. Say one thing to get elected and then do the opposite. Had he killed the hooker? Would he get away with her murder? Hatcher knew that he didn’t have any tangible evidence linking Morrison to the killing, but that shouldn’t preclude badgering the creep until he slips up, contradicts himself, or spills a damaging comment.

  And what of Manfredi? Sure, if he’d killed Curzon and it could be proved, that would be too big an issue to sweep under the rug to preserve MPD’s reputation. But the guy had broken the law by soliciting a prostitute. He’d get a lecture from some higher-up, maybe be given a week off without pay, and be right back teaching recruits how to be good, law-abiding cops.

  His zeal for pursuing Craig Thompson had abated, but he knew he had to do it. He called the home number and was greeted by a sleepy-sounding Thompson.

  “This is Detective Hatcher, Mr. Thompson,” he said in as pleasant a voice as he could muster.

  “Oh? Yes?”

  “I need to get a statement from you regarding a homicide I’m investigating.”

  “I’ve already given one.” Hatcher heard Thompson blow his nose.

  “Yeah, I know you spoke with my two partners, but I need a formal statement from you.”

  “A formal statement?”

  “Right. Look, I hate to bother you like this, but it’s my job. My partners told me that you cooperated and were open with them, that you hadn’t seen the victim for a couple of years, so this is just a formality. We’re doing it with everyone who’d had some connection with her.”

  “I don’t know, I—”

  “It’ll only take a half hour or so. I can pick you up if you need a ride.”

  “You want me to come to where you are?”

  “Right. All formal statements are taken here at Metro. We’re on Indiana. Want me to swing by and pick you up?”

  “No, that’s not necessary. Look, Detective, do I need an attorney with me?”

  “Hey, Mr. Thompson, that’s up to you, but I suggest you save your money. We’r
e not charging you with anything. We know you had nothing to do with the girl after you broke up. That was years ago. Right?”

  “Yes, that’s correct.”

  “Just want to get down on paper what you told my partners when they called.”

  There was a long pause before Thompson said, “All right. I can come this morning.”

  “That’d be perfect, Mr. Thompson. Like I said, I hate bothering you. But that’s what I’m paid for, bothering good people.”

  Thompson said he would be there in an hour. Hatcher hung up and grinned. Usually, he would have played the tough, no-nonsense detective. But he’d decided to be nice with Thompson, lull him into cooperating. It had worked. As far as Thompson knew, they’d bought his story that he hadn’t seen Rosalie Curzon in two years. He’d find out differently in an hour, and it would all be on tape.

  • • •

  Jackson and Hall stopped for coffee after leaving Beltway Entertainment and Escorts.

  “What do you think?” Jackson asked as he stirred in sugar. They stood at a small bar at the front window of the Dunkin’ Donuts.

  “He is a creep,” Mary replied. “Ooh, that’s hot,” she said as the black coffee burned her lips. “What about his comment about the woman you met with, Micki Simmons? She seem like the sort of woman who’d kill a female friend?”

  Jackson smiled. “No, but what I think doesn’t mean much.”

  “Judging from the way Rosalie Curzon was killed, I’d say it had to be a man.”

  “Not necessarily. Ms. Simmons is a solidly built young lady. She’s capable of it.” Another sip. “But nah, I think McMahon threw us her name to get the light off him.”

  “You’re probably right. Still, Matt, we’ve got to follow up on her.”

  “I know.”

  “You said she went home. South Carolina?”

  “I have her number there.”

  “Let’s get back and call her. And I have to try Mr. Patmos at Senator Barrett’s office again.”

  On the drive back to Metro, Mary brought up Hatcher’s health. “I think he’s sick, Matt,” she said.

  “Maybe.”

  “He doesn’t look good, and there was the vomiting the day we interviewed Congressman Morrison.”

  “He’ll be all right,” Jackson said. “Guys like that live to be a hundred.”

  When she didn’t respond, he added, “And become grouchy old men, snarling at kids and puppies and making life miserable for everyone around them.”

  She laughed. “Is that what you’ll become in your old age?”

  “God, I hope not.”

  Hatcher didn’t wait for his dotage to snarl at his two junior detectives when they walked into headquarters. “Where’ve you two been?”

  “Interviewing McMahon, the guy from Beltway Escorts,” Jackson said.

  “Anything there?”

  “Maybe. The guy’s a lowlife, and he had a grudge against the victim. We’ll keep on him.”

  “He suggested that the victim’s girlfriend, another hooker, was—”

  “I’ll write up the report,” Jackson said quickly, cutting Mary off in mid-sentence. She looked quizzically at him. He replied with a small shake of the head. He didn’t want Micki Simmons brought up with Hatcher, not after he’d willingly allowed her to leave town, and even drove her to the station.

  “I’ve got this Thompson guy coming in,” Hatcher said. “Should be here any minute.”

  “You want us with you?” Mary asked.

  “No. This one’s mine. Tell me again what he said when you called him.”

  Ten minutes later, Thompson arrived and was escorted to an interview room fitted out with video- and audio-recording equipment. He was seated in a hard wooden chair at the scarred table and was told that Detective Hatcher would be with him momentarily. Hatcher stood in an adjacent room and observed him through the two-way mirrored wall. With him was a uniformed officer.

  “Let’s let him marinate a little,” Hatcher said.

  “He’s a suspect in that hooker’s murder?” the officer asked.

  “Yeah, and he’s a live one. Used to be her boyfriend.”

  “How can a guy have a hooker for a girlfriend,” the young, pink-cheeked officer said.

  “Beats me,” Hatcher said. “Here’s what I want you to do. After I’m with him for fifteen, twenty minutes, I’ll give you some sort of sign. You come in and say I’ve got a phone call or something. Then, when I leave, you stay in the room with him. Stand over him. No conversation.”

  “Okay, Hatch.”

  Hatcher hitched up his pants over his belly and entered the room. His arrival startled Thompson, who jerked in his chair.

  “Mr. Thompson, Detective Hatcher,” Hatch said, using his most soothing voice.

  “Right,” Thompson said, standing and offering his hand. Hatcher shook it and took the chair across from him.

  “Thanks for coming in,” Hatcher said, recalling Chief Carter’s similar words. “I’m taping your statement, Mr. Thompson. Just want you to be aware of it.”

  “All right.”

  “Before we get to it, please spell your name for our records.”

  Thompson did.

  “And what is it you do for a living?”

  “I’m a consultant on national security issues.”

  “Oh. That’s a pretty important job, national security.”

  “Yes, it is.”

  “Where do you consult? I mean, I don’t get a chance to talk to too many consultants.”

  “Homeland Security, the Pentagon.”

  “Impressive. Keeping the country safe. Can’t imagine a more worthwhile thing to do.”

  “It is important.”

  “Damned important. So, Mr. Thompson, let’s go over your relationship with Ms. Rosalie Curzon. I understand that you and she were sort of a couple.”

  Thompson thought before answering. “I suppose you think it’s strange that I’d be involved with a prostitute.”

  “Hey,” Hatcher said with a shrug, “different strokes for different folks. Live and let live. So, how did you meet her?”

  Thompson looked down at the table. “I was a customer.”

  “Oh.”

  He looked up at Hatcher. “I knew right away that she was much more than a prostitute, Detective. She had a very sweet side to her that I knew I could bring out.”

  Hatcher smiled despite the pain in his temples. “That’s nice,” he said. “So, what happened? You couldn’t convince her to go straight, get out of the life?”

  “That’s right. We split up because she wouldn’t give up what she did. I pleaded with her, even went to her father to ask him to talk to her. He refused. Some father.”

  “Doesn’t sound like much of a father to me,” Hatcher said as if agreeing. “When’s the last time you and Rosalie got together, Mr. Thompson.”

  Here comes the lie. Hatcher could see it in Thompson’s eyes, mouth, and body language.

  “I’ll try to be as accurate as possible,” Thompson said, looking to earn points for effort. “It will be two years this coming November. I believe I told your colleagues that it was two years since I’d last seen her. I’d like to correct that. It’s just shy of two years.”

  “I appreciate your honesty, Mr. Thompson.” Hatcher now slowly stood and leaned over the table. Gone was his pleasant, I’m-just-a-regular-guy-in-your-corner smile. Replacing it were angry eyes, compressed lips, and a voice that was more a raspy growl. “You’re a liar, Thompson,” he said.

  Thompson recoiled back against the chair as though struck physically. His eyes opened wide, and his lips quavered.

  “You hear me, Mr. Consultant? You’re a liar.”

  “What are you saying. I haven’t lied. I—”

  Hatcher turned to the two-way glass and signaled to the uniformed cop, who’d been watching the scene in the room. The cop entered and said, “Phone call for you, Detective Hatcher.”

  “Please,” Thompson said, “there’s a misunderstanding he
re. The last time I saw Rosalie was—”

  Hatcher slammed the door behind him. He stood where the officer had been standing and watched, and listened, as Thompson tried to get the officer to listen to him. His words were wasted. The young cop, as he’d been instructed, stood behind Thompson with his arms folded across his chest, a stern look on his face.

  Hatcher was about to reenter the room when Thompson suddenly got to his feet, came to the door, and opened it. He and Hatcher were face-to-face.

  “Going someplace?” Hatcher said.

  “I want a lawyer,” Thompson said weakly.

  “Yeah, I think you’re going to need one,” Hatcher said. “But I’ll tell you this, Mr. Thompson, you already lied to the other detectives, and now you’re lying to me. We have witnesses who saw you with her as recently as two weeks ago.”

  Thompson’s lips were doing a jig now; he was on the verge of tears.

  “Let’s go back inside and continue our little talk,” Hatcher said, back to his pleasant, reassuring voice, a solo performance of good cop–bad cop. “When we’re done, you can call a lawyer. How’s that sound?”

  Hatcher had him pegged right. Thompson melted, fighting back tears, and followed Hatcher back into the room.

  “Now,” Hatcher said, “let’s go back over things, Mr. Thompson, starting from the beginning and right up until last Tuesday.”

  The video- and audiotapes ran silently as Craig Thompson began to tell the truth.

  EIGHTEEN

  A woman with a molasses accent answered Matt Jackson’s call.

  “May I speak with Micki Simmons,” Jackson said.

  “Who might ah say is callin’?”

  “Ah, Mr. Jackson. Matt Jackson. I’m calling from Washington.”

  “May I tell her what this is in reference to?”

  “Oh, she’ll know. We’re friends.”

  The woman called to Micki. The sounds of loud children played in the background, and a dog barked, evidently a large one. Its bark was deep. Did it bark with a southern accent? Jackson couldn’t be sure.

  “Hello,” Micki said.

  “Hi. It’s Matt Jackson, Washington MPD.”

  She spoke in a harsh whisper. “Why did you have to call me here?”

  “It’s the number you gave me.”