Favors and Lies (18 page)

—

Detective Wallace kept a running tab of murder scenes—no small feat in a city averaging a murder a day since the advent of crack. With twenty-five years on the force, he had processed over four hundred murder scenes. Some locations were hotbeds. Recurring supply for the morgues. The five years he spent in the lawless blocks that ran from little Trinidad to Catholic University revealed widely accepted drop-zones for those on the wrong end of a drug deal. Pull your car down one of the narrow backstreets, push the door open, and roll the body to the curb. No fuss, no muss.

Wallace had seen the city grow meaner, more callous. Where the narcotics trade had once been the most risky extracurricular activity in the city, a mere accidental shoulder bump with a stranger was now likely to end with an upward tick on the city's body count.

The alley behind the Ritz Carlton residence was a murderous first for the detective. The broad stretch of clean concrete was immaculate, less for the dead woman between the spotless Dumpsters that were emptied twice a day to keep away the rats. The Ritz could afford the extra garbage pickup. It couldn't afford not to.

A squad car blocked each end of the alley and Detective Wallace could feel the stares from the Ritz Carlton guests in their windows above. The manager of the hotel, a squat man in a tailored suit, had spoken with the first officer on the scene and begged, nearly wept, for expediency in processing the scene. Dead bodies did even less for hotel ambiance than rats.

A white uniformed police officer stood behind Detective Wallace as he kneeled, processing the scene. The officer took turns taking notes for the detective and eyeing the alley for rubberneckers. Detective Wallace spoke over his shoulder without taking his eyes off the victim.

“White female. Mid-thirties. Leather skirt and white sweater still intact and unmolested. Looks like strangulation. Ligature marks on the neck. Dead maybe five hours, but the coroner will be able to give a more exact time.”

“The coroner is on the way. He had a busy night.”

“Not in this section of town,” Detective Wallace replied, opening the small red purse next to the deceased's hand. “Any surveillance cameras?”

“We have one above the back entrance, but we're doing a canvass for horizontal views from ATMs and other establishments.”

“What does the back entrance camera show us?”

“Not much. The back door is used by staff. The camera is focused on the doorway. Probably theft prevention. There are three other fire doors, one-way exits with alarms. None are reported to have been accessed.”

Detective Wallace opened the purse with his latex-gloved hands. He placed the contents of the small bag one-by-one on the concrete next to the body and described the inventory as the officer continued to take notes.“One red lipstick. L'Oreal. A folding hairbrush. A Samsung cell phone. A pair of sunglasses, still in their case. A set of keys. A car key to a BMW, three keys that look like house keys, and one key that probably fits a post box, meaning she likely lives in an apartment building.”

Wallace unsnapped the women's matching red pocketbook. He read the driver's license and paused as he always did when a name came with the body, when the dead took back a moment of life to tell the detective who they were. “Haley Falls, resident of Arlington County. Lives at Prospect House, unit 1212.”

“So, you were right about the keys being to an apartment building.”

“She's a considerate victim. I'm used to working without an ID.”

“A considerate victim would have let you sleep in.”

Detective Wallace continued with the inventory of the pocketbook. “Three hundred and forty-two dollars in cash. Five credit cards and a check card.”

“A cell-phone, credit cards, and over three hundred in cash?”

“Not a robbery, unless the perp got caught with his pants down and had to run.” Detective Wallace turned the purse upside down and shook it gently.

The white detective donned latex gloves and turned on the Samsung phone. “Detective Wallace, you are going to need to check this out,” he said, holding out his hand.

Detective Wallace negotiated with his knees to get vertical before looking at the screen of the Samsung cell phone. He read the black text message on the pale blue screen to his associate.
Dan Lord murdered me.

“What is that?”

“It appears to be an unsent text message.”

“So the girl types in a message and doesn't send it to anyone?”

“That is my guess. Who is Dan Lord?”

“Nguyen was working on a case involving his family members. And including this young woman here, that makes five bodies.”

“A serial killer?” the white detective asked.

“This guy is clever enough to be anything he wants.”

“Why wouldn't she just call 911? Why bother with the text?”

“Maybe she couldn't speak. Damage to the neck.”

“It fits with strangulation.”

“Take a look around and see if there is anything else,” Wallace said, bagging the evidence.

A moment later, the white detective yelled out from a prone position on the ground, next to a large Dumpster. His arm was outstretched, beyond view, under the dark nastiness of the Dumpster's shadow. “I got something.” He grunted once and pulled out another cell phone, holding it by the small antenna.

“What is it?

“A cell phone. Some company I have never heard of. GoodBuy. Maybe a throwaway. A disposable.”

“Bag it and take it back for prints.”

—

The Central Detention Facility, known more commonly as the DC Jail, sits on D Street in Southeast Washington, a few hundred yards from the outer parking lot of the old RFK stadium. Its anonymous brick façade could easily be mistaken for a college lecture hall or a corporate office building from any office park in the country. With a maximum capacity of thirty-eight hundred, the criminals ruling the neighboring blocks of old row houses outnumbered the inmates four to one.

Detective Wallace pushed Dan through the main doors, holding on to Dan's handcuffed wrists. He moved his grip to Dan's elbow and steered his suspect to the registration desk. Beyond a glass wall, a female officer shuffled papers, moving pages from a pile on the left to an equal pile on the right, pausing briefly on each page long enough to hit it with a rubber stamp.

“Detective Earl Wallace, Sergeant. 2nd District,” Wallace said, flashing his badge.

“Good evening, Detective. You know the routine,” the female officer stated, shoving a clipboard with an attached form through the slot in the security glass.

Detective Wallace nodded. He filled in the form with one hand still holding Dan's arm. Moments later, Dan lost his cell phone, wallet, keys, and belt. Dan watched as his belongings disappeared into a large plastic envelope which was sealed, marked, and signed.

Wallace steered Dan through a doorway metal detector, followed by a more thorough handheld wand scan. The security shakedown was followed unceremoniously by fashion mug shots. With remnants of flash still in his eyes, Dan was shuffled down a narrow corridor.

“Have we had enough fun yet?” Dan asked, wrists now cuffed in front of his body.

“Wait until the rectal exam,” Detective Wallace replied.

“I am entitled to a phone call,” Dan said as the detective gleefully pushed him towards a sign on the wall that read “Fingerprinting.”

“Patience. You haven't even been processed yet.”

At the fingerprinting station, Wallace uncuffed Dan's wrists. A large corrections officer with a crowd control baton stood at attention at the end of the table.

“I will admit I've been looking forward to this. Let me see your hands, palms up.”

Dan did as he was told and Wallace bent over to examine his fingertips. “You have rough hands. Almost like a carpenter. Knuckles like a boxer.”

“There's more to the opposable thumb than holding the remote control.”

“Like killing a pretty woman and leaving her in an alley?”

“I have never killed a woman.”

Wallace looked at Dan with curiosity. “You can put your hands down.”

Dan once again did as he was told and then looked down to assess the fingerprinting station.

“This is how it works. The machine before you is called a LiveScan. You put your fingers on the scanner, one at a time, until the light turns green. Do not remove your finger until the light turns green. We will start on your right hand and then move to the left. Every finger in order, starting with your pointer. Thumbs are last. This is probably a bit different than the last time you were printed.”

“Anything else?”

Wallace grunted. “This method of fingerprinting is faster and more accurate than traditional means.”

“And if the bullshit charges you are filing don't stick, you legally have to delete the file.”

“Let's cross that bridge when we get to it.”

“We will cross that bridge as soon as I get my phone call.”

Wallace grunted again and reached for Dan's wrist. Five minutes later the fingerprinting process was complete. Wallace gently pushed Dan away from the fingerprinting station and nudged him in the direction of a bank of elevators. “Keep moving. Towards the elevator. We are going up.”

Dan stepped in the elevator and watched Wallace press the button for the fifth floor.

“The fifth floor, eh?”

“Makes a breakout difficult. Freedom isn't so free when it is fifty feet below. You would also have to break through reinforced glass and somehow squeeze out a very narrow window. Unless you lose some weight, I don't see it happening.”

The elevator door opened and Wallace pushed Dan to the left. The cinderblock walls breathed monotony. Boredom. Wallace knocked on the third metal door on the right side of the hall and then pushed it open.

“Welcome to our discussion chamber.”

“I think these were called interrogation rooms before it became unpopular nomenclature. I mean, with all the water, the towels, people being hung upside down until proven guilty . . .”

“Sit down.”

Dan shuffled around the small room and took a seat on the far side of the table. The cuffs dug into his wrists and he grimaced briefly before finding a comfortable position.

Detective Wallace sat in the empty chair on the opposite side of the table, facing Dan. “This conversation is being recorded.”

“It may not be much of a conversation,” Dan replied.

“Tell me, where were you last night?”

“Had dinner with a friend and then went home.”

“Who was this friend?”

“Haley Falls.”

“So you admit to being with her.”

“Yes.”

“And do you know her current whereabouts?”

“The morgue. Why, are you looking for her?”

“Do you have a problem with authority, Dan?”

“Let me know when some arrives.”

“You don't believe in the easy way, do you?”

“I don't believe there
is
an easy way.”

“You ever been to prison, Dan? Because that is where you are heading.”

“Here is the situation, from my seat. Haley Falls was found dead. You found evidence at the scene that somehow linked me to her. You did some investigating, probably talked to the doorman at her apartment. He told you we went out. Probably led you down the street to the Quarterdeck where you probably had a nice conversation with the waitress. She told you I was there and that I was with Haley. You are now following the tried-and-true assumption that the last person seen with a dead person is responsible for their death. In eighty-five percent of cases you would be correct.”

The detective scribbled in his notebook. “Just to be clear, you admit you were with Ms. Falls the night she died, and you admit you were the last one to see her alive.”

“No. I admit Ms. Falls is a friend of mine and that we had dinner. Then we went back to her place. Later, I left. She was leaving too. I put her in her car and then got in mine. There should be video of my car on Route 110 near the Pentagon, then again in front of that brick building on the corner of Washington Street that houses an office of the DIA. The building with the underground parking entrance manned by two guys with automatic weapons. You should also have my image in the camera at the bank next to the IHOP in Old Town. Another camera and a digital entry stamp at the Union Street parking garage. That will provide a lot of evidence for someone who was supposed to be elsewhere killing a friend, in public, when I could have just done it in her apartment.”

“So, back to the question. You were the last one to see her alive.”

“No. Whoever killed her was the last one to see her alive. And that wasn't me.”

“Haley Falls seems to think it was you.”

“Based on what?”

“An unsent message that was typed into her cell phone.”

“That is convenient.”

“Actually, inconvenient for you. Considerably inconvenient.”

Dan's mind began to replay the last twenty-four hours, the evening with Haley unfolding slowly in his mind and then speeding forward as if he hit a button on the remote control.

“Why did you have dinner with Ms. Falls?” Wallace asked.

“Because she's an old friend.”

“How do you know each other?”

“I was once hired to find her.”

“Find her? How?”

“It was a private investigation. I was hired by her family to locate her. I found her, alive and well I might add, and we became friends. She told me she didn't want to be found and she was not interested in being reunited with her family.”

“And?”

“We were friends after that. She changed her name, relocated a couple of times, and created a new life.”

“Were you romantically involved?”

“Once again you are playing the odds. Most murders are committed by loved ones, relatives, friends, and boyfriends.”

“So you can do the probability calculation.”

“Two strikes against me.”

“So you were romantically involved.”

“On occasion.”

“Was last night one of the occasions?”

“A gentleman shouldn't kiss and tell.”

“When I picked you up, you already knew she had passed away. How did you know?”

“I have friends in low places.”

Wallace stood and walked around the room once. He yawned and rubbed his face with his palms. “Things can go one of two ways here.”

“Detective, things can go one of one way here. I want my phone call.”

“Your phone call?”

“Yes. Ten digits I am going to start reciting over and over until you provide a phone.”

“Childish, don't you think, Mr. Lord?”

“Any more childish than playing Sesame Street as an interrogation technique? Worked in Guantanamo on some members of Al-Qaeda.”

“You are a piece of work.”

“As are you, Detective. Senator John Day seems to have issues with you. And then there was the subway incident, which I believe you had your hand in.”

“You do your homework.”

“I try. What do you say we save some time and you just let me out of here? Or you can give me my phone call and you can watch me walk out of here. Either way, if you want to find out what happened to Haley Falls, or my sister-in-law, or my nephew, or that poor student from American University, and likely Detective Nguyen, feel free to follow me. In fact, you can sign up for an email update.”

“You are a prick.”

“A prick with no time.”

“You are going to find some time.”

Dan started reciting a ten-digit number out loud and Detective Wallace shook his head.

“You are going to have to do better than that.”

“In DC, you can hold me for forty-eight hours until I see a judge. Then you have to officially charge me or release me.”

“You want to spend forty-eight hours here?”

“I'll take my phone call now. I will be out before I need a nap.”

Detective Wallace disappeared and reappeared ten minutes later. “Stand up. We are moving. You can have your phone call. I have arranged for your accommodations.”

Detective Wallace led Dan down the hall to a small cubicle. An old phone was affixed to the cinderblock wall. The cord to the phone was short, forcing Dan to lean over to hear the dial tone. “Do you mind?” Dan asked, hinting at his desire for some privacy.

Detective Wallace stepped back several paces and waited for Dan to finish his call, which he did through whispers. When he was done, Dan looked over and smiled.

“All finished, Dan?”

“Tick tock.”

Detective Wallace re-cuffed Dan's wrists and led him through a manned security door and down another long hall with matching gray interior. At the end of the hall they stepped into an open foyer. A security control booth peered out from behind thick security glass. Closed circuit cameras hung from the ceiling in every corner. A traditional jail door, replete with bars, blocked the far exit. An older guard with a starched uniform and no sense of humor was standing at attention near the barred door. Wallace nodded at the elder corrections officer.

A voice boomed from behind the security booth window. “Put him in the last cell on the left, Detective.”

The old guard opened the barred door and Wallace escorted Dan to the destination cell and unlocked his handcuffs.

“I'll be out in an hour. You can start counting.”

“A lot can happen in an hour,” the detective said, pulling the cell door open for him to enter.

—

Moments later, in the glass security booth, Detective Wallace stood behind the head guard, looking over his shoulder at the closed circuit monitor.

“You could get me in trouble with this,” the guard stated.

“Relax. This is a suspect in the killing of a fellow officer. I will take full responsibility.”

“Are you going to pay my pension if they fire me?”

“Tell them I pulled a gun on you. Now, what's your response time from here?”

“I hit this button,” the security control officer said gesturing towards a red circle on the dash in front of him, “and four guards will expedite their support of the senior guard at the door. Response time is less than twenty seconds.”

“That should be fast enough.”

“Only takes a second to kill someone.”

Detective Wallace ignored the statement. “Who do we have in the cell?”

“Three assaults, one with a deadly weapon. Two attempted murders. Both with guns. A carjacker. A drug dealer who tried to run over a non-paying client. A guy who allegedly beat his cousin to death with a tire iron. The last two are repeat felony drug dealers. ”

Detective Wallace nodded. “Keep your eyes on the screen and your hand on the alarm button.”

—

Dan found half a butt cheek worth of space at the end of the bench along the far wall. It was the seat closest to the toilet and the odorous aroma was the prime reason for the location's vacancy. He looked around the cell, his new roommates falling into silence. Dan switched his mind into assessment mode. Ten males. All black. One stoned. One asleep. Three who didn't seem to care about his presence. The remaining five appeared to care deeply about the intrusion and were rising from their seats.

As if on cue, one of the inmates Dan had designated as trouble invaded his real estate near the open toilet. Dan processed the information. The man had him by two inches and forty pounds. Thick arms meant time in the gym. Thick arms also meant slower reflexes. Only genetic freaks could gain both mass and speed, and most of them were in professional football, not a cell at the DC correctional facility.