Murder Inside the Beltway

by Margaret Truman

  “Where’s he going?” a reporter asked a colleague who was getting ready to leave.

  “Beats me. Who’s the guy with him?”

  “That cop who’s been here from the git-go.”

  “We follow?”

  “Nah. I just caught that hostage situation. See ya.”

  The rain that had pelted the city earlier in the evening had stopped, the clouds breaking to allow a three-quarter moon and a smattering of stars to become visible. Rollins drove fast, glancing occasionally in the rearview mirror to be sure no one, especially media, was following.

  “Slow down,” Jackson said.

  “Nervous, Matt? She really performs,” he said to Jackson over the rush of air and the engine’s fine-tuned hum.

  “Sure does,” Jackson agreed. “But I’d appreciate it if you’d drive slower.”

  Rollins laughed and maintained his excessive speed.

  “Where are we heading?” Jackson asked.

  “One of my favorite spots.”

  “Where’s that?”

  “Out by the airport.”

  Rollins sharply turned off into what Jackson recognized as West Potomac Park, a spit of land between the Potomac River and the Tidal Basin. As Rollins maneuvered into a parking spot away from a few other cars, a jet aircraft departing from Reagan National Airport thundered above; Jackson had the impression that he could almost reach up and touch its underbelly. Rollins turned off the ignition, sat back, sighed, and closed his eyes. Jackson didn’t say anything to disturb his reverie. Another jet broke the silence, awakening Rollins. “Like to fly, Matt?” he asked.

  “Always a little nervous.”

  “I love it. I wanted to take flying lessons but never got around to it. You know, business and family getting in the way.”

  “Must be fun flying your own plane.”

  “I’ll never know. I sometimes come out here just to enjoy the takeoffs. Of course, it depends on which runway is being used. Planes always take off and land into the wind. Did you know that?”

  “No.”

  “It takes such power to lift one of those planes off the ground. Such power.”

  Jackson agreed, and wondered why they were there.

  “I’m always curious why people pursue certain careers. Why did you become a cop, Matt?”

  Matt laughed. “I’ve been asking myself that same question a lot lately.”

  “Disillusioned?”

  “Sometimes.”

  “I imagine you became a cop because you were going to do something good, get the bad guys off the streets, make society better. Am I right?”

  “Something like that.”

  “We all come into our chosen professions with lofty ideals. I know I did.”

  “The law?”

  “That, and politics. You know, Matt, politics in its purest sense is a noble profession. It has the power to change things for the better, cure social ills, promote a peaceful world, lift men’s spirits.”

  Rollins glanced at the detective, who sat passively, waiting for more.

  “The problem is that idealism too often gives way to cynicism. The power that can be used for the good soon corrupts the idealist. Reality sets in, and you either adapt or find another calling.”

  “I’m sure you’re right, Jerry, but I’m not sure why you’re telling me this.”

  His words were snuffed out by another takeoff, this one seeming even lower than previous jets. Rollins looked to where the few other people in the park were intent upon watching the planes. “You see the same people out here all the time, Matt. It’s a perfect place to see raw power in action.”

  Jackson didn’t know how much longer he had with Rollins. The man obviously had something profound on his mind and was trying to express it—for what purpose, Jackson could only guess. Guess? He decided to push it.

  “What about those tapes, Jerry?” he asked, not sure whether the question would elicit an angry response, or open up the conversation. He was pleasantly surprised.

  “All right,” Rollins said, “let’s say such tapes existed, and that they played a part in Samantha’s kidnapping and return. I’m not saying they did, but let’s accept it as a hypothetical for this conversation. Fair enough?”

  “Fair enough.”

  “I said before that politics in its purest sense is a positive thing, but that it can turn ugly, the way a war can turn ugly for either side. And let’s face it, politics is war. People may not want to accept that, but it’s the truth, and like any war things are done to hurt the enemy. Am I making sense?”

  “I don’t know,” Jackson said. “What I do know is that a woman, a prostitute, was murdered, the same woman who taped clients, including some well-known people.”

  “And it’s your job to find that murderer.”

  “Exactly.”

  “And you further think that murderer might be the next president of the United States.”

  Rollins introducing Governor Robert Colgate so directly into the conversation threw Matt off guard. And it was at that moment that he decided he didn’t care about the tapes as a tool in the political war Rollins referenced. It didn’t matter whether Colgate or Pyle occupied the White House next January. Nothing really mattered except Walt Hatcher and the conclusion Matt had come to regarding his involvement in the Rosalie Curzon murder.

  “Did you buy those tapes from a detective?” he asked bluntly.

  Rollins didn’t answer.

  “A detective named Hatcher, Walter Hatcher?”

  Another jet snuffed out Rollins’s response.

  “You know more than you let on,” Rollins said when the jet’s engine noise had faded. “I’m impressed.”

  “Was it Hatcher?”

  Rollins bit his lip.

  “If it was,” Jackson said, “it was Hatcher who killed the woman for the tapes. I want to nail him, and I’m sure you don’t want to see a murderer go free.”

  “What I want, Matt, is why Samantha was kidnapped put to rest,” Rollins said.

  “I can’t promise that,” he said. “We’ll try to identify and prosecute those who took her, of course. Personally, I really don’t care as much about the tapes, Jerry, or why you bought them or where they’ve ended up. But I do care about seeing a murderer prosecuted and punished. It must have occurred to you when Hatcher brought them to you that he might have killed in order to get them. The murder of the call girl was in the papers.”

  Rollins started the car. He waited for another aircraft to pass over before turning to Jackson and saying, “Go get your murderer, Matt, but leave me out of it.”

  “I’m not sure I can. His selling you the tapes confirms that he took them.”

  “And I’ll deny having ever had this conversation with you. It’s like politics, Matt. You give some, you take some. You negotiate and hope you end up with the better end of the deal. I intend to be sure that I do. Where would you like me to drop you off?”

  “My apartment. It’s in Adams Morgan.”

  Despite Jackson’s pleas for Rollins to drive at a saner speed, the attorney floored the Porsche as he headed for Jackson’s neighborhood. As he sped by an intersection, Jackson spotted the patrol car parked at the corner. The officer turned on his flashing lights and siren and swung in behind the Porsche. Rollins saw him and pulled to the curb.

  The tall, burly officer swaggered up to Rollins. “License and registration,” he demanded.

  Rollins obliged. As he did, Jackson withdrew his gold detective’s badge and displayed it.

  “What’s going on here?” the patrolman asked.

  “Mr. Rollins and I have been investigating a crime,” Jackson explained.

  “That doesn’t give him the right to drive like a maniac.”

  “You’re right,” Jackson said.

  The cop squinted at Rollins’s license, then at the man. “You’re the Rollins whose daughter was kidnapped,” he said.

  “Yes.”

  He handed the license and registration back to Rollins. “G
lad you got your kid back, Mr. Rollins,” he said. “But take it easy or you’ll end up a vehicular homicide.”

  “Thank you, Officer.”

  The cop cast a final, quizzical look at Jackson before returning to his vehicle.

  “Thanks,” Rollins said.

  The Porsche attracted attention from passersby when Rollins pulled to the curb in front of Matt’s apartment building.

  “You’re a nice young man,” Rollins said, “and I sense that you’re still an idealist. Don’t lose that, Matt. Once you do, you can never get it back. Say hello to your lovely fellow detective, Detective Hall. I get the feeling there’s more between you than simply being cops.”

  Jackson got out of the car. He leaned back in and said, “Slow down, Mr. Rollins.”

  Rollins flipped a crisp salute and drove off, racing the engine as punctuation to the power he’d obviously craved, and had lost forever.

  THIRTY-SEVEN

  At eleven that night, Matt Jackson and Mary Hall sat in front of the television set in his apartment, watching the news. It was reported that the hostage situation had been peacefully resolved, and Detective Bob Kloss was interviewed.

  “The estranged father was distraught over the way a court hearing had gone,” he said into the camera. “The child is okay, the father is in custody.”

  A half hour later, the phone rang. It was Kloss.

  “Congratulations on resolving the hostage crisis,” Jackson said.

  “Thanks. It wasn’t hard. The guy was upset, that’s all, went off the deep end. Look, Matt, I said I’d call about Hatcher. Anything useful come out of your debriefing with Mr. Rollins?”

  “I’d say so. Hatcher sold him the tapes taken from the murdered call girl.”

  “Rollins confirmed that?”

  “He won’t go on the record and he didn’t use those exact words, but yes, he confirmed it. Gave me a lecture on the reality of politics. I feel bad for the guy. He might be going off the deep end, too.”

  “I called Chief Carter at home,” Kloss said.

  “And?”

  “He wants to meet with us tomorrow morning at ten.”

  Jackson told Hall what Kloss had just said.

  “You’ll both be there?” Kloss asked.

  “We’ll be there,” Jackson said.

  • • •

  They walked into Metro at 8:30 and went directly to their lockers, where Wally Pulaski, a senior detective and longtime friend of Hatcher, was rearranging his locker.

  “You guys are off the Rollins case now?” he asked.

  “Looks like it,” Mary answered.

  “You’re back with Hatch?”

  “We haven’t been told,” Jackson said.

  “He’s not coming in today,” Pulaski said. “Called in sick.”

  “Sorry to hear that,” Mary said. “He hasn’t been feeling good lately.”

  “Yeah, I know,” said Wally.

  “I’m sure they’ll give us something to do until Hatch comes back,” Jackson mused aloud.

  “Let me ask you something,” Pulaski said. “Are you two out to make some kind of trouble for Hatch?”

  “Of course not,” Mary said. “Why would you think that?”

  “Word gets around, you know. Scuttlebutt. He put in his papers, you know.”

  “So I heard,” said Jackson.

  “Be a shame to make trouble for a good cop who’s about to retire. Wouldn’t go down good with the others.”

  “I’ll keep that in mind,” Jackson said, anxious to leave. “Have a good one, Wally.”

  “Yeah, you, too.”

  They secluded themselves in the records room until it was time to go to Chief Carter’s office. Jackson was sure it was his imagination, but he felt that other cops were looking at him and Mary in an accusatory way. Did people know that they and Kloss were scheduled to meet with the chief? More important, did they know why? One thing was certain. They were about to put into motion a course of action with serious ramifications, one that couldn’t be called back once initiated.

  He’d had moments after agreeing to meet with Kloss and Chief Carter that he’d wondered whether he should simply resign, go home to Chicago, and let Hatcher retire and sail away into the sunset, allow him to reap the rewards of his years on the force and get away with years of shaking down hookers and restaurant owners, and of murder. It certainly would have been simpler. He wasn’t disillusioned about what this move would mean to his career with the Washington MPD.

  Wally Pulaski’s words stayed with him as he and Hall went upstairs to where Kloss waited outside Carter’s office. They joined him on the wooden bench. A passing detective stopped and asked, “ You seeing the chief?”

  “Yeah,” Kloss said.

  “What’s up?”

  “Just routine,” Kloss replied.

  The detective looked at him skeptically but continued on his way.

  “Know what you’re going to say?” Kloss asked Jackson in a low voice.

  “The same things I told you,” was Jackson’s reply.

  “There’s not much to back it up,” Kloss commented.

  “I know,” Jackson agreed. “But there should be enough to at least bring Hatcher in for questioning.”

  “Carter will probably send your charges about Hatcher shaking down people to IA,” Kloss said.

  “What about the murder of Rosalie Curzon?”

  Kloss shrugged. “Remember,” he said, “I’m in your corner. But Walt Hatcher has a long career with Metro, and did plenty of good work over those years. But a crooked cop spoils the broth for all of us. If he’s done what you say he’s done, I want him strung up as much as you do.”

  “I’m not looking to string anybody up,” Jackson said.

  “Carter’s bound to ask about your relationship with Hatcher, whether you’re here carrying a grudge.”

  “That’s not the case.”

  “I’m glad to hear that, Matt.”

  Was it the case? Matt wondered silently. Had he been looking for something to hang on Hatcher in retribution for the abuse and racial slurs he’d suffered? He didn’t think so. At least he’d convinced himself that he would be sitting there no matter who it involved. Kloss was right. One bad cop cast a shadow over every good one. He thought of Manfredi. Nothing more had been said about his having been one of Rosalie Curzon’s johns.

  Was Matt being naïve in thinking he could single-handedly clean up a sprawling agency like the Washington MPD, the white knight on horseback riding in to rid the city of its dishonest cops? And was he about to paint the majority of good cops with the broad brush of Hatcher’s misdeeds?

  He was deep into these thoughts when the door opened and they were ushered into Carter’s office, where the chief of detectives was joined by the ranking member of Internal Affairs and the deputy chief of police.

  Forty-five minutes later, the three detectives emerged. They walked quickly downstairs and outside to the parking lot, where they could talk freely.

  “I didn’t think it would happen so fast,” Hall said.

  “Frankly, I didn’t either,” said Kloss. “You made a solid presentation, Matt.”

  “I was just happy that he listened. He really listened. I expected him to pass it off, call for some internal committee to study it.”

  “You’ve been in D.C. too long,” Kloss said, slapping Jackson on the back. “Too many committees and too little action.”

  “But not in this case,” Mary said.

  Carter and the other brass had shown intense interest in everything Jackson had said during the meeting, particularly the possibility that Hatcher had murdered Rosalie Curzon. The deputy chief referenced the rumors linking Governor Colgate to the slain call girl, some of which went as far as speculating whether her murder had anything to do with the former governor’s paid liaisons with her. At one point, he commented, “If Hatcher killed her and it can be proven, it would go a long way to dispelling those rumors. And let’s face it, Colgate’s likely to end up the ne
xt president. I’m sure he’d appreciate our taking that heat off him.”

  Clearing Colgate by linking Hatcher to the murder was good politics.

  The IA and deputy chief of police were the first to leave the meeting, and it was left for Carter to take whatever action he considered appropriate. He announced to Kloss, Jackson, and Hall: “I understand that Hatcher took a sick day,” he said. “I’ll call him and suggest he come in to meet with me. If he refuses, we’ll go get him. I’ll give him until three.”

  Kloss settled in, writing reports of his successful hostage negotiation the night before, while Jackson and Hall were instructed to stay away from Metro until called. They browsed shops in Georgetown and took out sandwiches and drinks from Booeymonger, which they enjoyed on a bench in a pocket park near Dumbarton Oaks. They’d said little during this mandated exile from headquarters, focusing on trinkets and clothing in store windows, and Georgetown’s passing parade of tourists and locals who crowded the sidewalks. Jackson’s cell phone rang at 2:30. He listened, ended the call, and said to Mary, “Time to go.”

  The small force of police assigned to go to Walt Hatcher’s house and bring him into Metro left in two unmarked cars. Accompanying Jackson and Hall were Kloss, two detectives from Internal Affairs, and two additional detectives, who’d been recruited from the Crimes Against Persons division. One of the IA officers was in charge. Prior to leaving, he said, “We want to do this with a minimum of fuss and fanfare. Chief Carter called Hatcher, but he declined to come in on his own. He knows something’s up and might give us a hard time, but I don’t anticipate a need for force. If it proves necessary, do it quick and clean. Let’s roll.”

  Jackson had often wondered where Hatcher lived, the sort of house, whether he was meticulous in keeping up his property or someone who tended to let things slide. He’d never met Hatcher’s wife, Mae, and tried to picture the sort of woman who would be married to a man like Hatcher. Was he as difficult at home as he was at work? From what Jackson knew, Hatcher and his wife had been married for a long time. A few detectives who socialized with them talked of what a sweet woman she was—“She’d have to be to put up with Hatch,” they joked—and lauded her cooking. Hopefully, their arrival at the house wouldn’t be too traumatic for her. Maybe she wouldn’t be home, he mused. That would be good.