A Murder of Justice (29 page)

 EPILOGUE

W
ith difficulty, Frederick Rhinelander managed a welcoming smile. “Mayor Tompkins!”

Tompkins nodded curtly and, without invitation, took his seat in one of the chairs facing Rhinelander’s desk. Tompkins held a leather portfolio in his lap.

Rhinelander looked past the mayor to Marge, who was leaving. Rhinelander wanted her to turn so he could send the private eye-signal to extract him after a minute or two. But she closed the door behind herself without a backward glance.

The unhappy congressman turned his attention to Tompkins. He cleared his throat. “The trial . . . a shock . . . Brian Atkins.” Rhinelander shook his head and got a profoundly perplexed look. “Who would have thought?”

Tompkins didn’t answer right away, and his silence and stony gaze intensified Rhinelander’s sense of dread.

“Who would have thought?” Rhinelander repeated.

“You should have thought, Mr. Chairman.” Tompkins’s tone was that of a priest administering last rites.

Rhinelander’s mouth worked silently through several cycles. “Should have thought
what?
” he finally managed.

“Oh,” Tompkins said, “you should have come out with the truth.”

Rhinelander stared speechlessly.

“You see,” Tompkins continued, “Kevin Gentry was working for you when he began investigating Skeeter Hodges’s operation.”

“But,” Rhinelander protested, “I didn’t know everything Gentry was doing.”

“You knew he had recruited an informant inside Skeeter’s organization, and you knew he was paying that informant.”

“No!” Rhinelander’s voice rose.

“Yes.” Tompkins said quietly. He reached inside his portfolio for a sheaf of papers, which he tossed onto Rhinelander’s desk. “Photocopies of payment authorizations. A hundred and twenty thousand dollars in subcommittee payments to Martin Osmond.”

Rhinelander made no move toward the papers, yet eyed them as if a snake had suddenly materialized on his desk.

“You’ll find your signature on each payment authorization.”

Rhinelander started to say something, but Tompkins held up a restraining hand. “The original authorizations have fingerprints on them . . . yours.”

Struggling for composure, Rhinelander went on the offensive. “So I signed them. So Gentry was conducting an investigation. So what?”

“So, I suspect that if an energetic investigator followed the trail far enough, he would find that you told Brian Atkins about Gentry’s recruitment. And from there Atkins told Skeeter Hodges, and that in turn led to the murders of Gentry and Osmond.”

“No one is going to investigate a congressional committee,” Rhinelander said weakly.

“And the sun won’t rise tomorrow.” Tompkins laughed derisively. “Wake up, Mr. Chairman. Never underestimate the lure of a Pulitzer Prize. The newspapers in this town have brought down bigger men than you.”

Rhinelander was breathing deeply, and his face had taken on a sallow bluish tint.

“And don’t think other congressional committees wouldn’t hesitate to get some prime TV time,” Tompkins continued. “Such as the Senate Select Committee on Intelligence, chaired by Senator Daniel Dugan Patterson. Coincidentally, I had breakfast with him this morning. He asked me to remind you of his deepest regard for Kevin Gentry.”

Rhinelander sat motionless, drained of resistance. “What do you want, Tompkins?”

“I want your resignation from Congress.”

Incredulity, then fear flashed across Rhinelander’s face.

“A deal!” he said, with a burst of desperation-fueled energy. Words came in a tumbling frenzy as he upended the pork barrel. “You want the education plus-up? The new sewage plant? Bond guarantees for building those clinics? Shelters for . . .”

Tompkins stood and looked down on Rhinelander with contempt.

“No deal, Rhinelander. I want you out of my town.”

J
osé pushed open the door to the office, Frank close behind.

Feet on Frank’s desk, Leon Janowitz sat cocked back in Frank’s chair. With an easy motion, he threw. The third dart marked a solid single eighteen.

Janowitz turned and grinned. He held up his prosthetic throwing hand and wriggled the lifelike fingers.

“The Bionic Darter.”

He tilted forward and stood up. “Welcome back. I hear you two got Atkins a permanent room in the gray-bar hotel.”

José shut the door. “You’re supposed to be on convalescent leave.”

“That was a helluva trial. I had to come in and welcome the conquering heroes.”

Frank hung up his jacket and loosened his tie. “We’d still be working it if it weren’t for you.”

Janowitz smiled modestly. “Luck.”

“Plans?”

“The mayor offered to put in a word or two up in New York. One of the investment firms that handles the District pension plan.”

“That’s good of him.”

“The least he could do,” Janowitz bantered. “After he shot my chance to go to work for Frederick Rhinelander.”

“So it’s the Big Apple,” José said.

“No. I turned him down.”

“Oh?” Frank asked.

“Turned him down on the New York thing,” Janowitz amended. “Asked him if he could use a one-armed detective.”

“What’d he say?” José asked.

“Said I’d have to talk with you guys . . . said that you’ll be doing the hiring.”

The phone rang before either José or Frank could follow up.

Janowitz answered, listened, eyeing José, then Frank. He stood straighter. “They’re both here, sir. . . . Who? . . . Where? . . . Yes, sir, I’ll tell them.”

Janowitz hung up. “Your dad,” he said to José. “Said he’s at Virginia Osmond’s. Says you and Frank get over.”

A
somber Titus Phelps answered the door.

“Back here.” And he led Frank and José to Virginia Osmond’s bedroom.

A fleshy, medicinal odor filled the small room. Eyes closed, Virginia Osmond lay under a patterned quilt. The months had ravaged her: her hands had wasted away to
bony claws, and a green undertone dimmed her rich brown skin. A middle-aged nurse who’d been sitting bedside got up when the three men entered, and left after patting Osmond’s cheek.

Photographs in silver and gold frames stood on a night table. A high school graduation picture of Martin Osmond in cap and gown. A fading studio portrait of a handsome man in uniform, who Frank assumed had been Virginia Osmond’s husband. A picture of a younger Osmond with a still-younger woman standing on the steps of the Bayless Place house. The younger woman held a baby.

Her daughter and Martin.

“Virginia,” Titus Phelps said, “they’re here.”

Osmond opened her eyes.

“I can see that, Titus,” she said in a thin, papery voice. She smiled at José. “You have a handsome, handsome son.”

She raised her hand a fraction off the quilt.

“Come closer,” she whispered to José and Frank.

The two men stepped to the side of her bed. José put his hand over hers.

Virginia Osmond smiled. “I want to give the two of you an old woman’s blessing. . . . My Martin didn’t die a bad man.”

José bent close to her. “No, ma’am,” he said, “he died a hero.”

“I knew,” Osmond said. “I
knew.
” Her eyes searched José’s. “I waited to see . . . I knew . . .”

“Yes ma’am.”

She slipped her hand from under José’s and gestured to the night table. “In the drawer.”

José hesitated, then opened the drawer. Over his partner’s shoulder, Frank saw the pistol.

Glock 17.

José and Frank exchanged glances, then turned to Virginia Osmond.

“Night they killed Martin . . . after I called the ambulance . . . I went back to him,” Osmond said. “I saw the gun on the seat beside him.”

Her voice strengthened, tapping some last reservoir of energy.

“Heard the sirens . . . don’t know what went through my head . . . I knew the gun was bad. Took it. Hid it in the little shed I have for my garden things.”

Osmond was quiet for a moment. “They said Martin died of drugs. They said heroin.” She shook her head.

“But I knew Martin. I knew he had nothing to do with drugs. Later . . . I went through his things. I found an envelope with my name on it and a note inside.”

Osmond’s eyes drifted away as though she were trying to see the note again.

“All it said was, ‘Anything happens to me, go see Mr. Kevin Gentry. Don’t tell police.’ ” She shut her eyes, then opened them. “I read the papers and saw on the television. . . . Mr. Kevin Gentry was killed the same night as my Martin.”

Osmond looked at José as if seeking confirmation.

“Yes, ma’am, this was so.”

Seemingly relieved, Osmond nodded.

“I knew . . . all that time . . . that Hodges boy had something to do with Martin’s death. And that white man’s too. But I didn’t trust anyone. Not you police. I guess I’d a done nothing except pray for Martin, hadn’t been for that Hodges boy coming over here to Bayless Place, sitting in that car with that loud music. Him and his friend, that Crawfurd boy, looking us over.”

“Yes, ma’am,” José breathed, knowing what was coming next.

“Then I got the cancer. Like it was a signal from the Lord. I had to right things before I joined Martin.”

“Yes, ma’am.”

“And so I did.”

The last of her vitality draining away, Virginia Osmond gestured feebly toward the night table.

“Martin . . .”

José picked up Martin Osmond’s graduation photograph and placed it in Virginia Osmond’s hand. She
clasped the frame to her breast, then looked up at José and Frank.

“Thank you,” she whispered.

And so she died.

http://dc.gov/index.asp

News for Immediate Release

Government of the District of Columbia
Citywide Call Center: (202) 727-1000
TTY/TDD Directory

John A. Wilson Building
1350 Pennsylvania Avenue, NW
Washington, DC 20004

August 29, 2001

Mayor Announces Police Department Retirements

(Washington, D.C.)
Mayor Seth Tompkins announced today the retirements of Police Chief Noah Day and Police Captain Randolph Emerson.

*
Retirements of such men,” the Mayor said, “are always occasions of mixed emotions. Such men will be missed. They have long been law enforcement institutions. I wish them happiness and godspeed in their well-deserved retirements.”

T
HE
W
ASHINGTON
P
OST
Thursday, August 30, 2001

METRO
In Brief

THE DISTRICT

DCMPD Under New Management?

Mayor Seth Tompkins, having announced the surprise retirements of Police Chief Noah Day and Homicide Captain Randolph Emerson, is about to pull another rabbit (or two) out of his hat.

Insiders say that Tompkins is preparing to nominate Detective Josephus Adams Phelps as Chief of Police and Franklin Delano Kearney as Chief of Homicide.

Phelps and Kearney, longtime partners in . . .

*
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This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are either the product of the author’s Imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, business establishments, events or locales is entirely coincidental.

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