Murder at Union Station

by Margaret Truman

  “You hungry?” Mullin asked.

  “Sure.”

  They went to 12th Street, which passed for an old-fashioned Main Street, and settled at a table by the front window in Murry & Paul’s, a southern soul food fixture for years.

  “What’d you do last night?” Accurso asked after they’d been served large glasses of ice water.

  “Nothing. Had dinner, went home, fed the cat, and watched a little TV.”

  “Where’d you have dinner?”

  “What are you, keeping a diary of where I go, what I do?”

  “Just curious.”

  “The Jockey Club.”

  Accurso shook his open hand as he said, “Ooh, fancy, fancy.”

  Mullin ignored him.

  “That’s some beautiful church, huh?”

  “What is?”

  “That Catholic church we passed. You ever been there?”

  “No.” Mullin looked at the menu. “Ribs,” he said, “and slaw. You know that guy they say knew the dead guy’s name?”

  Accurso looked up from his menu. “Huh?”

  “That guy they said told the TV reporter he knew the victim’s name. Who the hell is he?”

  Accurso shrugged. “Beats me. Ribs, I guess. And slaw.”

  “I figure this guy, whoever he is, knows more than Russo’s name. You know what I mean?”

  “Maybe he does. We’ll never find him unless he decides to walk in. You want a Coke?” He knew that his big, beefy partner would like a beer or something stronger.

  “Yeah, I guess,” Mullin said, wishing he were alone in a dark bar.

  They’d finished lunch and were on coffee when Mullin’s cell phone went off.

  “Mullin.”

  He listened, then flipped the phone’s cover closed.

  “What’s up?” Accurso asked, laying down his half of the bill on the table. Mullin stood and tightened his tie, using his reflection in the window.

  “Like I told you, Vinny,” Mullin said, heading for the door, “showing the sketch was a waste of time. They already found the shooter.”

  NINETEEN

  As Mullin and Accurso left Murry & Paul’s, Tim Stripling was arriving at the FBI Building for his second meeting with the two agents with whom he’d met the previous day. They huddled in the same secure room at the rear of the building.

  “So, it looks like the hunt is off for Mr. Louis Russo,” Stripling said. He’d removed his suit jacket and sat at the end of a short conference table, flanked by the agents.

  “Yeah,” one said. “Somebody found him before you did.”

  “If I was being paid as a bounty hunter, I’d be unhappy,” said Stripling. “Maybe the guy who shot him collected a hefty fee.”

  When there was no response, he said, “Any word on who did the deed? I read his description in the papers, saw it on TV.”

  The agent to Stripling’s left consulted a paper on the table in front of him, and read from it in a monotone.

  “Leon LeClaire. Age forty-three. Residence listed as New York City. Born in Haiti, French passport.”

  Stripling’s eyebrows lifted. “You’ve nailed him?”

  “Somebody did. Literally. They discovered his body down in Kenilworth Gardens. We just got the word.”

  “A positive ID?”

  “That’s what we hear. We thought you’d get some info for us.”

  Stripling chuckled. “Why me?” he asked. “You’re the fabled Federal Bureau of Investigation.”

  His comment was confrontational, but he didn’t care. Stripling had always been distrustful of the FBI, having spent a good part of his professional life in the culture of the CIA, where the view of the Bureau was inherently less than positive. Now, as an independent operator, he was free to express what he felt without fear of retribution. But Mark Roper’s words came back to him: “Be cooperative.”

  The agents ignored his remark. One said, “The case is being handled at MPD by a detective named Mullin. Bret Mullin. They should be at the scene now. Kenilworth Aquatic Gardens, off the Anacostia Freeway, Northeast.”

  “I’ve been there,” Stripling said. “Nice place. An ex-girlfriend was a plant freak, loved the water lilies at Kenilworth.”

  “That’s nice to hear,” an agent said.

  The dig wasn’t lost on Stripling. “So,” he said, “just what is it you want me to find out?”

  “Information about how the investigation is going.”

  “The MPD investigation?”

  “That’s right.”

  Stripling shook his head and flashed a smile. “I know I’m going to get the same answer I got last time, but I’m asking anyway. Why have me keep tabs on what MPD is doing? Hell, you guys work with them all the time.”

  “They’re not always-well, as cooperative as we’d like them to be.”

  “Okay,” Stripling said. “I’ll see what I can do.”

  “Good. And while you’re at it, see what you can find out about this so-called mystery man who blurted out Russo’s name to a TV reporter.”

  “I saw that on TV,” Stripling said.

  “We’d like to know who he is.”

  “That won’t be easy.”

  “Which is why they want you to do it.”

  They. There was no sense asking who they were, so Stripling didn’t bother. “Anything else?” Stripling asked.

  “No. We’ll keep in touch on the cell phone we gave you.”

  “Okay,” Stripling said, standing and slipping on his jacket. He went to the door, turned, and asked, “What do I do if I find this mystery man? Who do I tell?”

  “Let your control at the Company know you have something you want to tell us. We’ll call and set up a meeting.”

  Stripling looked at him. A retired CIA agent with a control? The FBI guy was just rubbing it in. He held the man’s eyes for a long moment, then left the room and the building and walked to a Hard Rock Café at Tenth and E Streets, relatively quiet at mid-afternoon. He took a table and ordered an iced coffee from the waitress, removed his jacket to allow the AC to reach him, and thought back to the meeting.

  It was never easy discerning the true meaning behind what anyone in government said or did. When the agenda said peace, it very often meant war. There were more hidden agendas in official Washington than there were bureaucrats; the challenge was to get beyond the words to figure out what was really going on.

  Keep tabs on MPD’s investigation of the Russo murder and the subsequent killing of Russo’s assassin? That wouldn’t be difficult. He’d cultivated contacts within the MPD during his stint at the CIA and could call upon them. Of course, no longer being officially connected might make this a little more difficult, but he doubted it. There were always people in every organization who got a vicarious kick out of hobnobbing with spooks, even with men like Stripling, who’d spent most of his career identifying and nurturing moles within America ’s institutions, as opposed to the more swashbuckling overseas types. He didn’t know what use any of the information he developed from these sources was put to, nor did he care. “Don’t ask, don’t tell” applied to more than the military’s policy on homosexuality. Some of the dirt his informants dug up on political bigwigs presumably was passed on to provide other politicians with leverage against them. But again, it was not for him to know. The FBI’s great godfather, J. Edgar Hoover, exercised power by just having information, not necessarily using it.

  There was a time not long ago that his working within the United States was against official policy, if not against the law. The CIA’s function was limited to foreign shores only. The FBI’s mission was restricted to within the borders of the United States. But that rule went by the wayside as terrorist threats from around the world, among other things, necessitated a blurring of the lines. The FBI began to set up bureaus in other countries, and the CIA practiced its counterespionage role in the States. September 11, 2001, cemented the change in missions. All bets were off after 9/11.

  He sipped his coffee and thought of t
he second job he’d been asked to do, finding the so-called mystery man who was at Union Station either at the time of the shooting or shortly thereafter.

  The final mission for the moment was to find out what the real agenda behind the request was.

  “Like some dessert with the coffee?” the waitress asked. “Ice cream? Pie? Ice cream and pie?”

  “Sure. Some vanilla ice cream and chocolate sauce.” Everyone had to have a weakness, and ice cream was his. No apologies.

  Now cool and his passion satisfied, he pulled from his small briefcase the cell phone given him by the FBI and a telephone book. He had his own cell but figured the FBI could pick up the charges. He found the number he was looking for and dialed it.

  “Peck,” the man’s voice said after the first ring.

  “Tim Stripling. How are you?”

  “Good. Long time no see.”

  “My fault. How are things at MPD?”

  “Ah, come on. You want to get me started?”

  Stripling laughed. “Wouldn’t want to do that. Up for a drink?”

  “Sure. You buying?”

  “Of course. You work with a Detective Mullin?”

  Stripling detected a low laugh. “You buying him a drink, too?” the detective asked. “Cost you big-time.”

  “No.”

  “So why mention him?”

  “No reason. What time do you get off?”

  “Six.”

  “Market Inn at six-thirty?”

  “You got it.”

  “You pick up anything on finding the Union Station shooter this afternoon?”

  “There’s talk about it.”

  “Fill me in when I see you. I’m interested.”

  “How interested?”

  “Very. I’ll take care of you.”

  “Six-thirty it is.”

  His next call was to WTTG-TV’s studios.

  “Is Joyce Rosenberg there?”

  “Hold on.”

  “Hello. It’s Joyce.”

  “Hello to you. Tim Stripling here.”

  “Tim Stripling. I haven’t heard from you since you fed me that story about the cross-dressing congressman.What’s up?”

  “I’m following the Union Station murder. You seem on top of it.”

  “Not really. Nothing much new.”

  “Tell you what,” Stripling said. “I’ll show you mine if you show me yours.”

  “Is this a pitch? I’m engaged.”

  “Lucky guy. They found the shooter in the Union Station murder.”

  “What?”

  “Yeah. Very dead. Kenilworth Aquatic Gardens, off the Anacostia Freeway, Northeast. Name’s Leon LeClaire, forty-three, from New York. He’s got a French passport.”

  “Okay. Thanks!”

  He heard her say to someone, “Take this. The Union Station shooter. Down at Kenilworth Gardens. I’ll be with you in a second.”

  “Thanks, Tim.”

  “Hold on, Joyce. I get to see yours.”

  “What do you want?”

  “I want the big beefy guy who told you the victim’s name at the station.”

  “Don’t know it.”

  “Yeah, but you might have some footage, cutting-room-floor stuff, that could help. When can I come over?”

  “Tomorrow. Nine.”

  “See you then. Thanks.”

  “Anything else?” the waitress asked.

  “Thanks, no,” he said with a smile. “You make good ice cream.”

  He paid his bill and left the table. On his way out, he paused to look at a display of Bo Diddley’s first homemade guitar and the bodice worn by Marilyn Monroe in Gentlemen Prefer Blondes. Later that night, the place would be packed with people to whom such memorabilia was meaningful. They meant nothing to Stripling. But the ice cream was really good.

  TWENTY

  Mullin and Accurso drove to Kenilworth Aquatic Gardens, fourteen acres of marshland in the northeastern portion of Anacostia Park. Created by a civil servant in 1882 with a few water lilies from Maine, it grew over decades into a tranquil setting in a marginal neighborhood enjoyed by picnicking tourists, naturalists, and fledgling artists who set up their easels and attempted to capture the beauty of more than a hundred thousand water lilies, other aquatic plants, and water creatures that inhabit the park. Monet would have felt very much at home.

  By the time they’d reached the park, it was also filled with uniformed police and plainclothes detectives.

  The body of Leon LeClaire lay faceup, his body partially obscured by the five-foot-long platter-shaped leaves of exotic South American Victoria amazonica lilies. A small group of onlookers formed a ring about the scene, kept at a respectful distance by uniformed officers who’d been the first responders.

  “Hey, Bret. How goes it?” one of the officers asked Mullin as he and his partner approached.

  “Okay, okay.”

  A detective came to Mullin and Accurso.

  “Who made the ID on him?” Mullin asked.

  “I did,” the detective, considerably younger than Mullin, replied. He handed Mullin a wallet and a passport. Mullin examined the wallet’s contents and the passport, and handed them to Accurso.

  “Who decided he’s the Union Station shooter?” Mullin asked.

  “I did,” said the detective. “And Warner over there. Matches the sketch, same tan suit last seen wearing. Other details fit. It’s got to be the guy.”

  Warner joined them. Opening a brown paper bag, he used a handkerchief to withdraw a 9-millimeter semiautomatic Walther pistol. “Minus two bullets,” he said. “Probably match up with the ones that took down the guy at the station.”

  “Wouldn’t that be nice and neat,” Accurso said. “Who discovered the body?”

  Warner pointed to an elderly couple standing slightly apart from the other gawkers. Mullin went to them.

  “I’m Detective Mullin,” he said, showing his badge. “I understand you two found the body.”

  The woman’s fist went to her mouth and tears welled up in her eyes.

  “My wife is very upset,” the husband said, “as I’m sure you can understand.”

  “Sure,” Mullin said. “You were just what? Taking a walk or something?”

  “We come here often in the summer,” the husband said. “It’s cooler than in the city. Very peaceful.”

  Mullin glanced around and nodded. “You what, just saw him laying there?”

  “Yes. At first I thought it was an inanimate object. You don’t assume right away that you’re looking at a dead body. But then-well, my wife screamed, and I realized it was a person.”

  “You called 911?”

  “No. We got away from here and told somebody else what we saw. He dialed the police for us.”

  “Who was that?” Mullin asked, looking at others in the area.

  “I don’t see him,” said the husband.

  “Yeah, well. Did you see anybody suspicious around here?”

  “Suspicious?”

  “Yeah. Somebody who maybe was near where the body was, or somebody running off.”

  “No.”

  Mullin looked at the wife. She shook her head.

  Mullin took their names and phone number, and rejoined Accurso and Warner.

  “How did he get it?” he asked, nodding toward the victim.

  “Two slugs in the back of the head-very neat, very professional,” Warner said.

  That speculation was put on hold by the arrival of the medical examiner’s team, who immediately went to the body, joining evidence technicians photographing the deceased from various angles and collecting soil samples.

  “Get that weapon over to forensics,” Mullin told Warner, “and tell them it’s a priority.” To Accurso: “Nothing we can do here, Vinny. Let’s head back.”

  They’d walked halfway to where they’d parked their car when a remote truck from WTTG pulled up, and reporter Joyce Rosenberg and her two-man crew jumped out of the vehicle.

  “Hi, Detective,” she said. “Joyc
e Rosenberg, Fox News.”

  “Yeah, I know who you are,” Mullin said.

  “Is it true?” she asked. “You’ve got the Union Station shooter?”

  “Could be. Not sure.”

  “Down there?” she asked, pointing to the crowd congregated by the Victoria amazonica lilies.

  “Yeah, but it’s off-limits.”

  “Give me a statement,” she said, indicating to her crew to focus on her and Mullin.

  “No statement,” he muttered.

  She ignored him and said to the camera, “This is Joyce Rosenberg at the Kenilworth Aquatic Gardens, where police feel they’ve solved yesterday’s Union Station murder. With me is Detective Mullin of the MPD.”

  Mullin looked at her, smiled, and shook his head.

  She consulted notes: “We understand the suspect’s name is Leon LeClaire, from Haiti and carrying a French passport.”

  Mullin’s expression changed from bemusement to surprise. He looked quizzically at Accurso, who raised his eyebrows and shrugged.

  “Shut that thing off,” Mullin ordered, indicating the camera and microphone. She gestured for the crew to comply and followed Mullin out of earshot of the others.

  “Where the hell did you get that information?” he growled at her.

  “A source,” she said.

  “What source?”

  “Oh, come on, Mullin. You know I can’t tell you that.”

  “Yeah, the press and confidential sources and all that. Shield laws.” He leaned close to her face. “Did MPD leak it to you?”

  She took a few steps back. “No comment,” she said, smiling. “Look, Mullin, you’ve always been square with me, and I’ve never screwed you. Level with me. I have it right, don’t I? He’s from Haiti, name is LeClaire, carries a French passport?”

  Mullin nodded.

  “So why would this LeClaire shoot an old Italian guy in the back of the head in Union Station?”

  “I don’t know,” Mullin said. “Hey, as long as you’re asking all these questions, Ms. Rosenberg, how about answering one of mine?”