The Night Gardener (23 page)

R
AMONE DROVE DOWN
Oglethorpe Street and put the Tahoe behind Holiday’s black Town Car, parked across from the animal shelter. He could see Holiday and another, much older man standing in the community garden by the yellow tape that was still strung at the crime scene. The sun had dropped, as had the temperature. Some of the garden was shrouded in shadow and some was tinted golden by the dying light.

As Ramone came upon them, he recognized the old man. His photograph had run in the newspaper stories included in the file he had copied from Cold Case. There had been extensive details about him in the
Post
regarding his command of the squad investigating the Palindrome Murders, as well as in the later follow-up story in the
City Paper
. And then there was his Stetson. Ramone would not have forgotten that.

As he reached them, Ramone could see that Cook had aged badly, a result of possible health issues. His mouth drooped on one side, indicating a stroke.

“Sergeant Cook,” said Ramone, extending his hand. “I’m Gus Ramone. Nice to see you again.”

“You must have been a young man when we met,” said Cook.

“We never met, officially. I was fresh fish out of the academy. I knew you by your reputation.” Ramone acknowledged Holiday. “Dan.”

“Gus.”

Up close, Holiday’s preserved looks did not completely hold up. He had a drinker’s sallow complexion, the lined face of a smoker, and that belly, noticeable on his skinny frame.

Ramone and Holiday did not shake hands.

“You called in the body,” said Ramone.

“That’s right.”

“Tell me about how that came to be.”

“Long and short of it, I had pulled over on this street sometime after midnight, say, one-thirty.”

“Had you been drinking much?”

“A little. I fell asleep in my car, woke up a few hours later, got out to take a leak, and found the corpse. I went up Blair Road and called it in from a pay phone outside the liquor store.”

“You touch the body? You do anything to foul up the scene?”

Holiday smiled tightly at the question. “I wouldn’t.”

“I’m just asking because you were, you know, sleepy.”

“The answer’s no.”

“You hear a gunshot at any time?”

Holiday shook his head.

“What else?” said Ramone. “What do you remember seeing that night?”

Holiday looked around at nothing. Cook said, “Tell him.”

“I woke up a couple of times after I dozed off,” said Holiday. “You know, that driftin-in-and-out thing. I didn’t look at my watch. It’s all kind of hazy.”

Because you were drunk.

“Tell me what you saw,” said Ramone.

“A patrol car drove by me, up from the dead end. There was a perp in the backseat, behind the cage. Thin shoulders and neck.”

“Male cop?”

“White male.”

“Did he stop to check you out?”

“No.”

“You get a car number?”

“No.”

“How do you know the passenger was a perp?”

“I don’t.”

“What else?”

“Later, I saw a Number One Male walking through the garden. Young, I’d say, from the energy in his movement.”

“How did you identify him as black?”

“It wasn’t dawn yet, but the sky had lightened some. I can tell you he wasn’t white. There was his hair, too. He was doing that dip thing in his walk. I knew.”

“You say you saw this guy later. How much time between the patrolman and the young man?”

“Don’t know.”

“Okay. And then, what, you fell asleep again, woke up, and got out to take a piss.”

“That’s pretty much it. I had my mini Mag with me. I read the kid’s name off his school ID. I put it together with the other elements and called on Sergeant Cook.”

“You called Sergeant Cook because of the Palindrome Murders.”

“Right.”

“That’s why you’re here?” said Ramone, looking at Cook.

“You can’t ignore the similarities,” said Cook.

“Or the differences,” said Ramone.

“Which are?”

“I’ll get to that.” Ramone turned back to Holiday. “Doc, I’m assuming you and others can account for your whereabouts that evening before you pulled over on Oglethorpe.”

Holiday thought of the bar in Reston, the young salesman he had drunk with, and the woman, registered at the hotel. Also, there were the two men arguing about the Paul Pena record and the bartender he had spoken with at Leo’s.

“I’m good,” said Holiday. “But I’m not a suspect, am I, Gus?”

“Just trying to protect you.”

“You’re looking out for me, huh?”

Ramone bit down on the edge of his lip. He had expected this, and he supposed he deserved a little bit of it, too. But he wasn’t going to take more than a drop.

“Are you the primary on this?” said Cook.

“No, I’m assisting. Actually, it’s a little deeper than that. The decedent was friendly with my son. He was a neighborhood boy, and I know his parents.”

“Anything so far?” said Cook.

“No offense, sir,” said Ramone, “but I’m gonna ask that you go first.”

“That’s not too sporting of you.”

“What would you have done when you were out there? I’m a police officer working a live case, and you two are civilians. Okay, ex-cops, but that won’t cut it if I go up on charges or if this gets fucked up in court. You know the rules.”

Holiday muttered a “bullshit” under his breath. Ramone ignored it, keeping his eyes on Cook.

“W-we don’t have anything new,” said Cook. “I did have a strong suspect on those old murders. A fellow named Reginald Wilson. No hard evidence, just a feeling.”

“The security guard,” said Ramone. “I read the files.”

Cook appraised Ramone with his eyes. “He went to prison twenty years ago for fondling a boy and stayed in because of his violent nature. Wilson came out recently. I still like him for those old killings. I think he needs to be investigated.”

“That’s it?”

“So far, yes.” Cook pointed his chin toward Ramone. “Now you.”

“This is where I’d normally say, Thanks for the chat, but any information related to this case is confidential.”

“But?”

“Out of respect to you, Sergeant, I’m going to give you something. And also because I want the both of you to leave this alone and let the police do their jobs.”

“That’s fair,” said Cook.

“First, said Ramone, “the similarities. The name Asa is a palindrome, obviously, and he was found in a community garden, as were the others. As you know, he died from a gunshot wound to the head.”

“What did the autopsy show?” said Holiday. “Was he molested?”

Ramone hesitated.

“Was he?” said Cook.

“There was semen found in his rectum,” said Ramone. “The parents don’t know —”

“What we say here stays here,” said Cook impatiently. “Was it a rape?”

“There was no tearing and very little bruising. Lubrication was apparently used. It’s possible that the sex was consensual. Or it’s possible that it occurred after his murder. Possible.”

“Like the others,” said Cook.

“But the differences are hard to ignore,” said Ramone. “Asa Johnson was not killed elsewhere and dumped in the garden. He was not held captive for several days before his death, and he hadn’t been re-dressed. He wasn’t from a low-income home. He lived in a middle-class neighborhood on the opposite side of town from Southeast.”

“Was there hair missing from the boy’s head?”

“If there was, it wasn’t noted in the report.”

“You still gotta look at Reginald Wilson,” said Cook. “The man needs to be checked out. What y’all do with DNA now, if you had a sample from him you could match it up with what was found in the Johnson boy.”

“Or it could exonerate him,” said Ramone.

“So be it, then,” said Cook. “Aren’t you curious?”

“You can’t just force him to give up a sample. You’ve got to have evidence linking him to Johnson in some way. A hunch isn’t enough.”

“You don’t need to tell me that, young man.”

“I’m saying… Look, all of this is moot if he couldn’t have committed the crime, isn’t that right?”

“You mean if he’s got an airtight alibi.”

“The man does have a night job,” said Holiday. The comment drew a cold glance from Cook.

“You know where he works?” said Ramone to Cook.

“I do. It’s out on Central Avenue, in P.G.”

“If it’ll put your mind at ease, I’d be happy to check it out.”

“Now?”

Ramone checked his wristwatch. “Okay. Let’s do it now and put this to bed.”

The three of them walked from the garden. They passed the whimsical plot with the spinning flags and the signs reading “I Heard It Through the Grapevine,” “Let It Grow,” and “The Secret Life of Plants.”

“Little Stevie Wonder,” said Cook, inadvertently showing his age. “They were gonna mention one of his records, they could have picked a good one.”

“I think it’s ’cause of the garden theme,” said Ramone helpfully.

“Really?” said Cook.

Holiday, feeling that cold thing touch his shoulder, stopped and looked back at the signs, then followed Ramone and Cook to the cars.

“You mind driving?” said Ramone to Holiday.

In the Town Car, Holiday took his hat off the seat beside him and put it on the floor behind his feet.

THE GAS-AND-CONVENIENCE
store was on the stretch of Route 214 known as Central Avenue, running out of the District from East Capitol into P.G. County. Across the avenue was a shopping center that had seen better tenants come and go. Night had arrived, but the light of the lot was bright as day. Tricked-out SUVs and dual-piped imports occupied the pumps. Ramone heard a go-go tune coming from one of the vehicles, recognizing it as a song his son had been playing of late, a group called UCB. He wondered if Diego had gotten home before dark, as he had promised.

“You goin in?” said Holiday.

“Yeah,” said Ramone, remembering why he’d come. “Wilson, right?”

“Goes by Reginald, not Reggie,” said Cook.

“This shouldn’t take long.”

Ramone slipped out of the backseat. They watched him cross the lot, chest out, shoulders squared, the bulge of his Glock visible inside the jacket of his blue suit.

“Ramone,” said Holiday. “Motherfucker is ramrod straight,
isn’t
he?”

“Some just look like police,” said Cook. “I was the same way.”

“Lookin ain’t being,” said Holiday.

They sat there for a while, not speaking. Holiday reached into his jacket for his smokes, thought better of it because of the old man’s health, and left them alone.

“Man’s got to be pumping sixty dollars’ worth of gas into that thing,” said Cook, looking at a young guy filling his Yukon Denali. “When it’s three dollars a gallon, you’d think they’d downsize.”

“There’s never a gas crisis in America,” said Holiday, “even when there is one.”

“Gasoline and television. Two things folks in this country will not do without.”

“You know those apartments, Woodland Terrace, down on Langston Lane?”

“Government housing,” said Cook. “I had quite a few dealings down in there.”

“Some of those people are paying eleven dollars a month for their apartment, subsidized rate. And then they pay eighty dollars a month for cable service and HBO. Talk about sucking on the federal tit.”

“You had that area?”

“Shit, I walked and rode patrol in One, Six,
and
Seven-D. I’d work any district, anytime. People
knew
me. They’d see my car number and wave. Drug dealers and their grandmothers, too. Not like our boy Ramone. Pulling desk duty while I was out there on the line.”

Cook removed a pack of sugarless gum from his jacket, slid one out, and offered Holiday a stick. Holiday waved it away.

“What happened between you two?” said Cook.

“I was on the fringe of this thing,” said Holiday. “I just got caught up in something bigger that was happening at the time.”

“
How’
d you get caught up?”

“Ramone had an IAD case, an investigation into a group of vice cops who were being paid off by pimps to leave their girls alone. The undercover guys were having trouble making arrests because the prosties were being tipped off.”

“Were they?”

“I had heard that a couple of the vice guys were on the take. Sure.”

“So?”

“IAD was surveilling the stroll where these girls walked. Taking photographs from UC cars and shit. They got me on camera, talking to this white girl, name of Lacy. More than once.”

“What were you doing with her?”

“I talked to her regular, used her for information and just as my ear to the street. Prostitutes see things out there.
You
know that. Plus, we were friendly, like.”