Murder Inside the Beltway

by Margaret Truman

  Once inside, the woman placed Samantha on a single bed in a rear bedroom. The only window was locked and nailed shut, and covered with a heavy red drape sealed at the edges with tape. The man in the sweatshirt went to the kitchen, where he turned on a police scanner and listened to a rapid succession of messages concerning the event: “Child abduction reported on the Mall, Independence Avenue, all available units report to scene.” He smiled. Nothing about the car or their identities. Smooth as silk.

  He went to the bedroom where the woman, whom he now called Greta, had removed the gag from Samantha’s mouth and loosened the tape from her hands. The little girl sat up against the bed’s headboard and cried.

  “Now, look,” said Greta, “I know you’re scared out of your wits, and I don’t blame you. I would be, too. But here’s the deal. You seem like a smart kid, so I’m sure that we’ll get along just fine—provided you do what I tell you to do.” She reached for a homemade ski mask sewn from a multi-colored piece of fabric and slipped it over her head. She indicated that the man, Paul, was to leave the room. With the mask over her face, Greta undid the handkerchief from Samantha’s eyes.

  “That better?” Greta asked.

  “Who are you?” Samantha managed.

  “That’s not important. We don’t want to hurt you, and we won’t. You just have to stay here a little while until we make some business arrangements. Once that’s done, you’ll be back home with your family. How’s that sound?”

  “I want to go home now.”

  “Well, that can’t be, my dear. That just can’t be.”

  Greta was a stocky, solidly built woman in her late thirties or early forties. Her voice didn’t match her frame. It was a deep, soothing, sexy voice of the sort heard on all-night big city radio stations from female disc jockeys cooing into microphones and spinning romantic music for the nocturnal lonely. The tone had its intended effect on Samantha. She visibly relaxed and brought her sobbing under control.

  “Now,” Greta said happily, “how about some macaroni and cheese, and a soda? I bought some things especially for you that I think you’ll like. Most girls your age like mac and cheese and soda. Sound good?”

  “Yes.”

  “Good. Now, I’m going to lock the door behind me. There’s nothing in this room that can get you in trouble, and don’t even think of trying the window. It won’t open. And don’t start yelling or anything silly like that. There’re no other houses near us, not a soul to hear you. Understood, Samantha?”

  She nodded.

  “That a girl,” Greta said, patting Samantha’s hand. “Back in a jiffy.”

  She went to the kitchen, where Paul had put on coffee. “Sweet kid,” she said.

  • • •

  The idyllic Saturday at D.C.’s famed Mall was now chaotic. A half-dozen marked police cruisers, lights flashing, radios blaring, had shut down Independence Avenue where the abduction had taken place. A legion of uniformed cops created a wide circle around Jerry and Sue Rollins, who stood by their Volvo, their faces testifying to the trauma they were experiencing. Other MPD vehicles continued to arrive, their plainclothes occupants spilling from them. Matt Jackson and Mary Hall also showed up. They’d been contacted at the museum on Matt’s cell phone and took off at a run.

  “She’s gone,” Sue said to anyone and everyone close enough to hear. “My God, somebody has taken my baby!”

  A tall, lean detective dressed in jeans, a tan safari jacket, and sneakers established himself as the person to whom Jerry and Sue Rollins should direct their comments. “I’m Detective Kloss,” he said. “You’re the parents?”

  “Yes,” Jerry replied. “I’m Jerry Rollins. My wife, Sue.”

  No handshakes were exchanged. The detective recognized Rollins as being part of the Robert Colgate campaign, which told him this would be more than a simple child abduction, if ever there could be such a thing.

  “Give it to me fast, Mr. Rollins,” Kloss said. “From the top.”

  Rollins tried to pace his retelling of events, but the words tumbled out as though every second counted, which it did.

  “…afternoon on the Mall… getting ready to go home… stopped to talk with friends, gave the keys to Samantha… that’s our daughter… she’s seven… we left our friends and Samantha was gone.… Gone!… It all happened in a second.”

  “Are you sure she didn’t run off somewhere, Mr. Rollins?” Kloss asked. “I have a kid that age and—”

  “No, of course not,” Rollins snapped. “She wouldn’t do that.” He extended his hand in which he held the car keys. “These were over there,” he said, pointing to where he’d found them on the ground.

  Kloss turned to the crowd, which was by now substantial—men, women, and children, teenagers and young couples, tourists with funny hats and T-shirts, some capturing the scene on their video and still cameras. “Anybody see anything?” he barked.

  Some shouted comments based upon what they’d heard had happened. There were no eyewitnesses. A ruddy-faced man said loudly, “Let’s go looking for the kid. Come on, she’s got to be around here somewhere.”

  Kloss took a description of Samantha and the clothes she was wearing, and instructed officers to isolate the area around the car with crime scene tape, and to post guards to keep it from being violated. He dispatched other officers to begin a search of the Mall, and called for backups, including the Park Police. He suggested to the Rollinses that they get in his car, away from the madness. Sue balked: “I have to find her,” she said, turning toward the crowd. But her husband grabbed her arm. “No, Sue,” he said. “Let’s do what he says.”

  As they pushed through a knot of gawkers, Rollins heard a woman say, “People should keep their eyes on their kids.”

  He spun around to say something, but didn’t.

  When they reached Kloss’s unmarked vehicle, the detective spotted Jackson and Hall interviewing bystanders. He told the Rollinses to get in, and went to the two young detectives. “Hey, Matt, you heard?”

  “Yeah. I got a call. We were here at the Mall and—”

  “I can use you two,” Kloss said. “Stay close.”

  When Jackson had been promoted to detective, he’d initially been assigned to Kloss’s squad. Kloss was a skilled hostage negotiator who’d worked a number of difficult cases, and had been lead on a kidnapping in Southwest only three months earlier that had turned out badly. A four-year-old boy had been abducted by a recently released sexual predator and murdered.

  Jackson liked and respected Kloss, a soft-spoken man with a hint of a southern accent and a reasoned view of things, professional and personal. The senior detective had been high on Jackson, too, and welcomed having him assigned to his unit. But a month later, another of what seemed like a never-ending series of personnel shakeups occurred, and Jackson was transferred to Walter Hatcher’s group. Not a good day.

  Kloss joined the Rollinses in the car. “Look,” he said, “I’ll have every available cop in the city scouring the Mall for your daughter. If she’s anywhere near, we’ll find her. Did either of you notice anyone suspicious when you were walking around, especially after you came out to get your car?”

  “No,” Rollins said. “Well…”

  “Yes, sir?”

  “There was a man who was looking at me funny. I can’t be sure. It might have been my imagination.”

  “Description?”

  “He had a sweatshirt on, a red one. No, more maroon. And a baseball cap.”

  “Team logo?”

  “Not that I noticed.”

  “What about a car?”

  “Car?” Jerry and Sue said in unison.

  “In the event whoever took her used a car.”

  “Oh, my God,” Sue said.

  “I didn’t see any car,” Jerry said. “Did you, Sue?”

  “No.” She began to sob into her hands. Her husband put his arm around her and uttered words meant to comfort.

  “We’ll get out an Amber Alert. Tough without a vehicle to ID, but s
omeone might see her and respond. I want you two to drive back to your house. We need a picture of your daughter as soon as possible. Do you have one?”

  “Of course.”

  “Multiple pictures, if possible. Are you okay to drive?”

  “Yes,” Jerry said.

  “I want detectives with you.”

  “Is that really necessary?” Rollins asked.

  “I prefer it, sir.”

  “Okay. Ready, Sue?”

  “What will happen to her?” she asked.

  “We’ll do everything we can to get her home safe,” Kloss said.

  He looked through the open door to where Jackson and Hall stood, got out of the car, and approached them. “Matt, I’d like you to go with Mr. and Mrs. Rollins in their car. They’re driving home.”

  “Right,” Matt said. “By the way, this is my partner, Detective Hall. Mary Hall.”

  “Okay, Mary,” Kloss said. “Since you two work together, how about you go with Matt? Wouldn’t hurt to have a woman with the mother.” He noted her concerned expression.

  “Problem?”

  “No, sir. It’s just that we’re assigned to Walt Hatcher’s unit and—”

  “Don’t worry about Hatcher,” Kloss said. “I’ll square it with him. Right now, I need help and I need it fast. When you get to their house, keep them calm, drapes closed. I’ll get a tech unit there to monitor the phones. See what you can get from any callers, people who might have it in for the family. You know who we’re dealing with?”

  “It’s Jerry Rollins,” Jackson said.

  “One in the same.”

  “High profile,” Mary said.

  “With plenty of people who might have it in for him. Come on, I’ll introduce you.”

  • • •

  The ride to the Rollins home in Foggy Bottom took only minutes. Jackson had offered to drive, but Rollins wouldn’t hear of it. Silence reigned throughout the short trip and until they’d entered the house. Mary immediately went to the front windows and drew down olive-green duvet shades. Sue asked why she’d done that. “Orders,” Mary said. “It’s better.” She gave the street a quick scan before drawing the final shade.

  Sue Rollins gathered up a selection of photographs of Samantha and handed them to an officer, who quickly left the house to put them into circulation. Jerry Rollins headed for his first-floor study: “I need to make some calls,” he announced.

  “I wouldn’t, sir,” Jackson said, “not until Detective Kloss gets here. He’ll manage the case. They’re sending a tech unit to put taps on your phones.”

  “Your mother,” Rollins said to his wife. “She’ll hear it on the radio or TV and—”

  “No, Jerry. Please.”

  “Did you see any press before we left?” Rollins asked Sue.

  She nodded. “A WTOP car was pulling up.”

  “Damn!” Rollins said.

  “Sir,” Jackson said, “any chance of getting a cup of coffee?”

  The Rollinses looked quizzically at him. So did Mary.

  Jackson smiled. “I think we should all sit down, have a cup of coffee, and wait calmly. Maybe we can use the time for you to fill me in on anyone who might have had a grudge against you or your daughter, someone with a motive to have taken her.”

  “Motive?” Rollins blurted. “What sick bastard could have a motive for taking a beautiful, precious, innocent little seven-year-old girl?”

  Neither Jackson nor Hall gave a response. Everyone’s thoughts were the same. A pervert. A child molester. A deranged monster to whom the life of a child meant little, if anything.

  The silence was broken by a ringing phone.

  Rollins moved toward the kitchen.

  “Extension?” Jackson asked.

  “Here,” Sue said, leading him to a small cordless one on a table in the living room. Jackson rested his hand on it and looked through to the kitchen, where Rollins was about to pick up. Jackson nodded. Both phones were raised simultaneously.

  “Jerry? It’s Bob. What the hell is this I’m hearing? Samantha kidnapped?”

  Jackson recognized the distinctive gravelly voice of the presidential candidate.

  “I’ll come over,” Colgate said. “I can’t believe this. I—”

  “Sir,” Jackson said into the phone. “Governor Colgate. This is Detective Matthew Jackson, MPD, sir.” He glanced at Mary, whose open mouth said it all. “Sir, I would advise that no one come here, that no action be taken until our special units are in place and a plan has been put into motion.”

  “What’s he saying?” Colgate asked Rollins.

  “He’s a detective, Bob. I think we should do what he suggests.”

  “Jesus! How’s Sue?”

  “Upset, of course. No. Frantic.”

  A knock on the door caused Rollins to say, “I have to go, Bob. I’ll be in touch as soon as it’s the right time.”

  Mary Hall opened the door to allow Kloss and other detectives to enter. She looked across the street, where a MPD van had parked. Two men exited the vehicle and came to the house carrying black cases of the sort used by airline pilots to carry aeronautical charts. They removed digital tape recorders; a central tap to trace calls had been installed through C&P Telephone.

  Sue Rollins busied herself in the kitchen filling a coffeepot, and pulling an assortment of cookies from a cupboard. The younger detective’s suggestion that there be coffee made sense to her, gave her a purpose, and helped distract her from the terrible thoughts that flooded her mind. Mary’s offer to help was accepted, and she joined Sue in the kitchen.

  Kloss and his next in command, a middle-aged Hispanic detective, sat with Jerry Rollins at the dining room table. Jackson was invited to join them. “All right,” Kloss said, “let’s start from the beginning, from the moment you got up this morning. Who knew you planned to spend the day at the Mall?”

  The question left a blank expression on Rollins’s face. “I don’t know,” he eventually said. “I might have told friends we had these plans. I canceled an appointment today so we could do it.”

  “An appointment with who?”

  “Ah… with, ah, Governor Colgate. I work with him on his campaign.”

  “He called before you got here,” Jackson said.

  “He knew?” Kloss said.

  “Yes,” Rollins said.

  “Quick.”

  “Not surprising,” Rollins said.

  “What did he have to say?”

  “Nothing. He was shocked, that’s all. He asked how my wife was. Your detective here—”

  “Matthew Jackson, sir,” Jackson helped.

  “Yes. Detective Jackson here was on the extension when I spoke with the governor. He was going to come but Detective Jackson dissuaded him until you’d arrived.”

  Kloss nodded at Jackson.

  “What is the plan?” Rollins asked as Sue and Mary delivered the coffee and cookies.

  “I’d like you to join us, Mrs. Rollins,” Kloss said. “I was asking your husband who knew that you intended to go to the Mall today.”

  She looked at Jerry. “I told a few people, I’m sure. Friends. I was happy that we could find family time.”

  “Did your daughter know of your plans?” Kloss asked.

  “Of course,” Sue replied. “She was tickled pink. I’m sure she told her friends at school about it.”

  Kloss made notes in a pad before saying, “Okay, let’s talk about your daughter’s friends. She have run-ins with any of them lately?”

  “Not that we know of,” Sue said.

  “How about you, Mr. Rollins? You’re a pretty familiar face around Washington—lawyer, clients who maybe felt they got the short end of the stick in a case you handled for them.”

  “That’s always possible, but…”

  And on it went for the next hour, their conversations interrupted by an increasing number of phone calls, all of which were taped, the callers’s voices heard through the recorders, the answering machine delivering Rollins’s outgoing message.
No calls were answered directly, per orders from Kloss. Many were from the press. Soon, vehicles from the city’s media outlets arrived and parked outside, their reporters and crews ready to spring at anyone coming through the Rollinses’ door. Kloss called in for uniformed officers to keep them at bay. Kloss’s cell phone was busy, too, including a succession of calls from Chief Carter informing him that until the Rollins kidnapping was resolved, it took top priority over any and every other pending case.

  “So, what do we do now?” Rollins asked Kloss after they’d settled again at the table, and a fresh supply of coffee had been brewed.

  “We wait,” Kloss said. “The chief has every spare cop out looking for your daughter. They’ll have her picture. They’ll do their job, Mr. Rollins. In the meantime, we learn to sit tight.”

  TWENTY-FOUR

  Walt Hatcher learned of Samantha Rollins’s abduction from Mae. Rearranging the garage had tired him, and he’d fallen asleep on a chaise lounge on their patio.

  She came from the kitchen, where she’d been watching TV while seasoning chicken for dinner. He opened his eyes at the sound of her. “Walter,” she said, “there’s been a kidnapping at the Mall. That lawyer, Rollins, the one who works with Colgate and his campaign. His daughter. Seven years old. It’s on the television.”

  He lowered his feet to the floor and shook his head. “Kidnapping?”

  “Yes. Come in and watch. It’s all over the news.”

  He followed her to the kitchen where an anchor on a local channel brought viewers up to date.

  “…and according to Chief of Detectives Willis Carter, a massive search has been launched, using all available manpower. The victim, seven-year-old Samantha Rollins, is the daughter of prominent D.C. attorney Jerrold Rollins, a close advisor and confidant to presidential candidate Robert Colgate. Calls to the Rollins home have not been returned. More on this breaking story.”

  He lumbered from the kitchen to the stairs, pulling his belt tight.