Favors and Lies (4 page)

—

Dan rode shotgun in the black unmarked police cruiser. They cut across the National Mall and Dan stared stoically at the Capitol on the left before turning his gaze 180 degrees towards the Washington Monument. The car rounded the corner from Ninth Street onto Independence Avenue near the Air and Space Museum and Dan noted the exceedingly empty sidewalks.

The tourist season was in a lull, a break between the masses of ‘tourons' as they are called by most government workers who practice avoiding them during the summer rush. A smaller influx of tourons occurred over the holidays, but most of the federal government ran a skeleton crew between Thanksgiving and the New Year. It was a schedule envied by the private sector and yet considered overwork by Congressional standards.

The police cruiser turned left in front of the red Smithsonian Castle.

“Did you know the Smithsonian, the greatest American collection of museums, was initially a gift from a Brit named Smithson?” the detective asked.

“Yes,” Dan replied tersely as the car drove under the Department of Energy's Forestall building. The DOE structure was built on huge concrete stilts perched over the road, a reminder of what architecture could be before 9/11 changed everything.

Detective Nguyen pulled the unmarked car into a space along the L'Enfant Promenade, a desolate swath of cobbled pavement devoid of trees that boasted a title far more grand than it deserved. The Mandarin Oriental stood on the horizon a half-mile away, a diamond in a sea of coal, a showcase of possibility for the future of the area.

“This is us,” Detective Nguyen said, throwing his official park-anywhere pass on the dash. “Welcome to the most undesirable real estate within a block of the Mall.”

“The Mandarin is just up the street.”

“Another universe exists between here and there. Don't let the proximity fool you.”

Dan followed the detective out of the car and up the sidewalk of the promenade.

“Essentially, this portion of the promenade is a large bridge, though it is hard to tell when you are topside. D Street and the train tracks are right below us. At the top of the promenade are four of the ugliest buildings in DC. An architectural style known as ‘brutalism.'”

“Everything sounds better with a name.”

“You know the area?”

“I've driven through on my way to the Fish Market. Never walked it.”

“There's probably a reason for that.”

Detective Nguyen turned right onto a concrete staircase leading downward. The high-walled, concrete staircase—with a twisting landing at the midpoint—was a descent into hell, a path to the abyss underneath the promenade.

“Nice place,” Dan said as he eyed the pile of syringes, condoms, and broken bottles that littered the landing as the staircase turned downward.

The detective stopped on the landing and motioned over the edge of the shoulder-high wall. “You ready for some climbing?”

Dan looked at the detective's slight frame. “Are you?”

“Been climbing city walls since I was a kid.”

Dan nodded, reached up, and threw his foot to the top of the wall. Without breaking momentum he effortlessly stood, looking down at the detective and then at the depressing terrain below. Train tracks ran ten yards off to the left, the rusted underbelly of the promenade support structure above.

“There's a ladder on the other side,” Dan said as Detective Nguyen struggled to get his leg to the top of the wall. Dan offered a hand. Detective Nguyen ignored it and worked his way into a seated position, his legs hanging over the edge.

“Grab the ladder,” Dan said.

Detective Nguyen looked at the makeshift chain of shipping pallets and crates nailed together to cover the twelve feet to the ground below. “Not very promising,” the detective said.

“There must be another way down. People live here,” Dan said.

“There are all kinds of tunnels and paths around here. You want to look for one?”

Dan looked at the detective, smiled, and then stepped off the wall, landing twelve feet below and executing a perfect roll to displace the downward energy.

Dan stared up at the detective and watched as Nguyen's face froze and then melted into a look of disbelief and concern, eyebrows furled. Dan stood waiting below, listening to the detective curse and mumble as he lowered his slight frame down the stack of old pallets.

The ground under the promenade and next to the train tracks was a wasteland. Dirt and clay filled the retaining walls of the shared commuter and cargo rail tracks. Glass shards and rocks protruded from the earth. A dusting of trash, metal fragments, and shreds of discarded clothing littered the ground. The stench of human waste was overpowering. Blue tarps curled around the main support column for the promenade above.

“What a hellhole,” Dan said.

“Welcome to the Third World.”

“I have seen Third World and this is worse. This is the Third World with guns and crack. Most of the real Third World is just trying to find water and food.”

“How about welcome to the Capital City?”

Dan walked in the direction of the support column and a patch of earth unmistakably being used as a shelter for a homeless soul. Several strands of displaced police tape fluttered about.

“This is where they found him.”

Dan absorbed the details of the location where his nephew took his final breath. He stepped onto the concrete base of the support column and surveyed the area. “Not sure how someone would have gotten him down here.”

“Assuming he didn't overdose and was carried here,” the detective retorted.

Dan stepped down from his perch and wiped at the moisture gathering in the corner of his eyes.

“OK, Detective . . . tell me, how does a kid from Northwest DC end up in a shithole like this?”

“My guess?”

“Your best guess.”

“The search for a bigger and better high. Starts with a few beers, moves onto pot, maybe a little ecstasy and shrooms, and then onto the really hard stuff—meth, coke, heroin.”

“Not this kid.”

“You think your nephew is immune? I have seen millionaires strung out on heroin, politicians on crack.”

“They have the latter on video.”

“There have been others. And I'm telling you no one is immune to a fall from grace. No one. Not even your nephew. And if your nephew was abused as a boy, well, maybe there is more to him than you know.”

“Not my nephew. No way. No how. That goes for both drugs and abuse.”

“How can you be so sure?”

“Because if I found out he'd been in a place like this, I would've killed him myself. And that would've been enough to keep him away.”

“I hope you're right. But that's not the kind of thing you want to tell a police detective on the job. Particularly after the medical examiner said your nephew may have suffered prolonged abuse.”

“I haven't abused anyone,” Dan said. “And I haven't killed anyone recently. At least, not this week.”

Detective Nguyen grunted and wiped some dirt off the front of his grey shirt.

Dan ran through the scenario. “All right. Let's assume he knew this place as somewhere he could get drugs. Does that mean he would come here to shoot up?”

“Generally speaking, drug users like to use their drugs. The scenery is secondary.”

The ground rumbled underneath their feet and a single blast of a horn forced Detective Nguyen to turn his head. Dan took several steps forward as a CSX cargo train passed and disappeared into a tunnel that ran under the taxi queue in front of the Mandarin Oriental in the distance.

The surroundings settled and Dan asked, “Who found the body?”

“Anonymous call.”

“How often you get calls on dead homeless people?”

“Anonymous calls?”

“Yes.”

“Depends on the time of year. Depends on the location of the body. We had one last year around Christmas turn up at the Capitol. Had throngs of tourists calling in. The guy was frozen in the seated position right smack on the front steps of his elected officials' place of work.”

“Appropriate if he was trying to send a message to Congress.”

“People freezing their asses off usually don't think that deeply.”

The detective walked around the support column and moved the pile of blue tarps on the ground with his foot.

“Looks like someone lives here, at least part-time,” Dan said.

“Probably more than one person. It's got a roof above, it's isolated, it's close to the Mall, close to tourists. Easy access to high-quality panhandling.”

“Isolated . . .” Dan repeated, walking backwards, parallel to the train tracks. He glanced up at the edge of the promenade above and then walked to the other side of the structure and repeated his upward stare.

“What are you thinking?” the detective asked.

“DC has installed thousands of security cameras in the city since 9/11. It's hard to find a place where
someone
isn't catching your face on video. There are none down here.”

“Nothing to steal. No one to rob. No need for cameras,” the detective said.

“A good place to kill someone.”

“So far, there is no evidence anyone has been killed.”

“How long have you been a detective?”

“Long enough.”

“In your experience, how many times have you seen two relatives die on the same night, in two different locations? Common sense should be screaming at the podium.”

“Unfortunately common sense doesn't provide evidence. It's far more likely that your sister-in-law's death and your nephew's overdose had something to do with drugs. If you can ignore the big fancy house and the nice neighborhood, drugs are statistically the most likely connection.”

“I've seen enough down here. Let's see if we can find another way out.”

“You can't scale walls?”

“No, I can. I don't want
you
to get hurt.”

—

Dan spent the late afternoon and evening giving and receiving condolences from relatives known and unknown. Aunts in Texas. A great uncle in Hawaii. Cousins on Long Island he didn't know existed. His sister-in-law's family was flying in from California in installments, the first batch on a red-eye taking off in six hours. He notified the university on the passing of his nephew, called the funeral home, and made arrangements for a wake. He contacted ServiceMaster to have his sister-in-law's house professionally cleaned, top to bottom. When he couldn't think of anyone else to call, he opened a half-filled bottle of Jack Daniels and had a shot. Followed by another. And another. Five drinks in, the photo albums found their way down from the bookshelf in the corner of Dan's cozy living room. He put on some music and whispered the lyrics to a Passenger song
, “My liver may be fucked, but my heart, she is honest.”

And then he wept.

When the bottle dripped dry, he went top shelf and opened a seventeen-year-old Ballantine. He poured it neat, held it in his hand while he drank, and set his empty glass on the coffee table when his head swooned. Through teary, bloodshot eyes he was hypnotized by the family photos spread across the sofa cushions and coffee table.

The Lord family tree had been pruned. The proud Irish lineage ended with him. He was the last Lord standing and, as grand as the title may have sounded when kings in castles ruled as far as the eye could see, he felt lonely.

Sleep came in spurts, as if the digital display of the clock on the nightstand was nudging him awake, poking him with regularity. He knocked the clock onto the floor and when that failed to alleviate the silent interruptions, he threw one of his pillows over the subtle red illumination. At six in the morning he gave up. “Today has to be better than yesterday,” he said, sitting up, feet on the floor.

He shook his head, felt the effects of the evening's indulgence, and then dropped to the carpet and cranked out a hundred perfect push-ups. Push-ups that would make an old-school Marine salute in honor. Straight back, eyes slightly up. Chin and chest to the ground. When he finished, he performed an equal number of sit-ups. Exorcise through exercise. With sweat dripping from his brow, he shuffled to the kitchen, choked down some bread with Advil, showered, and pulled on jeans and a mid-weight sweater. An hour later he pulled into a visitor parking space on the American University campus.

He dodged students heading out the main entrance of the five-story Hughes dormitory and announced himself to the red-haired woman seated at the front desk.

“My name is Dan Lord. Conner Lord was my nephew. I'm here to collect some of his belongings.”

The woman, in her mid-fifties, slid a three-ring binder in Dan's direction. “Sign in to the visitor's log and I'll need to see some ID.”

Dan noted the gruffness of her tone and then put it down to dealing with unruly students who spent their waking hours trying to pull the wool over her eyes.

Dan flashed his driver's license to the woman named Ruth. “Your nephew was on the fifth floor. Room 513. Elevator to the fifth floor. Down the hall. South end.”

“Thank you.”

“You know, the DC police were here earlier in the day.”

“The police?”

“Yes. A detective. A man.”

Dan looked down at the visitor's log. “He didn't sign in?”

“A police badge doesn't require a signature.”

“Do you need to escort me to the room?”

“No. My line of defense ends here at the door. I have a radio if I need legs for pursuit. This place isn't Fort Knox. It's a dorm. There are a dozen emergency exits, windows with no screens on the first floor, fire escapes on the backside. It's impossible to keep track of four hundred students. Besides, you look honest. I have a built-in bullshit detector. Comes with two decades of dealing with students. Keeping an eye on a residence hall can be tricky. I spend most of my time trying to figure out who is sneaking in alcohol, who is selling weed, who is trying to get their pecker pulled in one of the lounges.”

Dan smiled. “I'll remember not to bullshit you.”

“I'm sorry for your loss.”

“Did you know my nephew?”

“Knew the face. He usually said hi on his way out. But like I said, there are four hundred kids in this building. Sometimes it takes a while to learn all their names. I usually get there by the end of the fall semester.”

“I don't doubt that.”

The elevator doors opened and Dan parted a group of four girls in sweatshirts, short shorts, and flip-flops. He turned right, following the arrow for the south side of the building. Music played from nearly every room. Most of the doors were open to varying degrees. He eyed the numbers above the doorframes as he made his way down the coed hall. Each glance left and right provided insight into dorm life that Dan had last seen two decades ago. In the third room on the left, a boy slept on the floor. In the next room, a girl changed her clothes, her bare back exposed towards the hall. Further down the hall, he eyed a young man staring at a closed book on his desk while two sets of feet protruded from beneath a blanket in the loft bed above.

When he reached 513 he knocked on the open door.

“Yeah,” a voice answered.

Dan stepped into the room. The cinderblock walls were painted institutional gray. Two loft beds with desks beneath them stood on opposite sides of the room, robbing the room of light and space, giving it a cave-like feel. An air conditioning unit filled the lower half of the window on the far side of the room.

“I'm Dan Lord. Conner's uncle.”

A young man in baggy shorts stood from the wooden chair at the desk. He wore an American University sweatshirt with bleach stains around the hem. His attempt at facial hair resulted in bald spots along the jaw-line where his follicles weren't mature enough for the request to look older.

“Josh McKeen.”

A blonde stepped from the bathroom and Josh introduced her. “This is Krista.”

“I guess you heard the news?” Dan asked.

“Yeah, I heard,” Josh said.

Krista ran her hand through Josh's hair in soothing strokes before adding, “I gotta go.”

When the girl left the room, Dan sat on the unoccupied chair underneath his nephew's loft bed. The room was littered with electronic goodies: a cell phone, iPods, remote controllers, a flat screen TV, DVD player, video game consoles. Laptops. External hard drives. Digital Cameras. Flash drives.

“You guys are wired.”

Josh looked around the room, not sure what to make of the statement.

“When I was in school we had a TV and a radio, and we barely studied. I don't know how your generation finds time to open the books with all your toys.”

“We're multi-taskers. And a lot of the books are digital these days.”

Dan looked around at the pictures on the wall, the clothes oozing from half-closed dresser drawers. “You mind if I ask you some questions?”

“No. Not at all.”

“Was Conner into anything I need to know about?”

“Like?”

“The usual. Drugs. Drinking. Gambling. The kind of stuff that gets people into trouble.”

“Not really. Me and Conner have been roommates for three months, most of the first semester. We were friends last year in a different dorm and we got along pretty well. We don't get in each other's stuff or in each other's faces. We drink beer together and watch sports. We're roommates. We're friends.”

“You guys ever fight?”

“Sure, but nothing serious. Nothing physical. Occasionally we piss each other off—a wet towel on the bathroom floor. Someone dropping a deuce and not flushing. But Conner was my buddy. He had my back. I had his. That's all you can ask for in a roommate.”

“What about drugs?”

“We smoked weed a few times.”

Dan felt like he had been punched in the stomach. “Conner smoked weed?”

“A couple of times. But not here in the dorm. Never seen him do anything harder than that, but this is college and we are in DC; you can get anything you want.” Josh held up his hand and extended two fingers. “Two calls, two calls.”

“What do you mean?”

“Everything is two calls away.
Everything
.”

“You guys ever do heroin?”

“Jesus, no. You don't even see heroin. A lot of weed. A lot of ecstasy. Every once in a while you will see some magic mushrooms. You hear rumors about people doing meth and coke, but people try to hide that shit. Heroin? You go to prison for heroin. We're students but we're not crazy.”

“Where were you on Monday night?”

“In the lounge. We were watching the football game. Chicago versus Green Bay.”

“Can anyone vouch for you?”

“Half of the floor.”

“And after the game?”

“I spent most of the night here, with Krista.”

“Didn't go out?”

“Did you see her?”

Dan smirked.

“Conner left on Sunday morning. Early. Didn't see him after that. I figured he was at his girlfriend's or his mom's.”

“Who's his girlfriend? Anyone steady?”

“Conner hooked up with a couple of chicks early in the semester, like we all do. Hell, there are more hoochie brothers here than anyone wants to admit.”

“What's a hoochie brother?”

“You know, two guys who've banged the same girl. We call them hoochie brothers. And it's better to be the older brother than the younger brother, meaning that . . . well . . .”

“Yeah, I get the idea.”

“Anyhow . . . Conner has been seeing a girl named Lindsay. Alpha Chi Omega. Nice girl. Real smart. A knockout. She came by last night after we got word from campus police. The floor held an emergency meeting and the university rolled out mental health counselors for anyone who wanted to talk. They handed out cards and gave direct numbers for the campus priest and rabbi. I have Lindsay's number if you want. Or you can try texting her.”

“Send me her contact info.”

“What's your number?” Josh opened his cell phone, punched in Dan's number, and sent the information.

“Does she live in this building?”

“No. She's at the Alpha Chi Omega sorority house. Other side of campus. Near Nebraska Avenue. There are about seven or eight houses over there. Kind of like American University's version of Greek Row, though it's unofficial and not sanctioned by the school. It's not much, but it's all we have.”

“You say this girl Lindsay is a hottie, huh?”

“Smokin'. You'll see.”

“Do you mind if I take a few of the things here?” Dan asked, motioning at the desk.

“No, not at all. Everything on the desk is Conner's. The backpack too. His computer isn't there. I assume he took it with him.”

“What about his GPS? I didn't see it in his car.”

Josh looked around, cocked his head and said. “I don't think I have ever seen him bring it to the room.”

Dan scooped a variety of objects off the desk and put them in the backpack that was hanging on a hook under the loft bed. “I may be back for the rest of his things, or the university may box them up for me.”

“I can box them up.”

“I'm sure you have enough to deal with.”

“I can handle it. The university is giving me a free ride for the first semester. All my grades are pass/fail and all my classes are pass. One of the perks when your roommate passes away.”

“That's a hell of a way to get out of studying.”

“Only works once.”

“What's your GPA?”

“Three point six.”

“So you weren't motivated to kill your roommate for the semester off.”

“That's a no.”

“Just thought I would check.” Dan stood and threw the backpack strap over his shoulder. “What did the detective have to say?”

“What detective?”

“The one that was here this morning.”

“There were no cops here as far as I know. I stayed at Krista's last night. I got here an hour ago.”

—

Dan stopped by the front desk on his way out. “You said there was a detective here this morning?”

“That's right.”

“A slightly built Asian guy?”

“No. Caucasian. About your size.”

“Gun?”

“I don't recall a gun. He could have had one under the jacket.”

“Did you see him leave?”

“No, now that you mention it. But I do have to use the bathroom on occasion.”

Ruth thought for a minute. “We have a security camera running.”

“I would love to see it.”

“In the back,” Ruth said, flicking her head over her shoulder, happy to add sleuthing to her morning duties.

Dan followed Ruth to a converted closet steps beyond the front desk. Two monitors sat on a metal shelf. Ruth took up position next to the open door, keeping one eye on her desk while she fiddled with the keyboard and monitors. “These are DVRs that run on twenty-four hour loops. The recordings are stored on a server for a week, and then they are dumped from the memory by campus police. Pretty high tech. Used to be all tapes. The building may be old, but the university likes to cover its ass.”

“Can you show me the last two hours?”

“Just give me a second.”

Ruth ran the DVR recording in reverse. A girl walked backwards out the door and Dan followed a few minutes later.

“That's you,” Ruth said.

A rush of students walked out the door backwards and Ruth continued her commentary. “Those are students with nine o'clock classes coming back.” She waited a few more minutes and the recording blipped. Then it showed another group of students walking backwards through the door and across the lobby.”

“And that's the nine o'clock class students leaving the building.”

“There is nothing in between.”