“He’s chained to the bed with a guard posted twenty-four hours a day outside his door. He’s being released tomorrow morning. By tomorrow night he’ll be dead. Vic’s already working on the details.”
“And there’s nobody out there who can help him? You’re sure?”
Rayfield laughed. “Hell, no one even knows he’s there. He’s got nobody. Never has, never will.”
“No mistakes, Frank.”
“I’ll call you when he’s dead.”
* * *
Fiske sat in the car and cranked up the air-conditioning, which, in his fourteen-year-old Ford, merely caused the slow movement of muggy air from left to right. Sweat trickling down his face and staining his shirt collar, Fiske finally eased down the window as he stared at the building. Average-looking on the outside, it was not on the inside. There, the people spent all of their time searching for those who killed other people. And Fiske was trying to decide whether to join them in their pursuit or drive back home. He had identified his brother’s remains, his official duty as next of kin completed. He could go home, tell his father, make the funeral arrangements, see to his brother’s final affairs, bury him and then get on with his life. That’s what everyone else did.
Instead, Fiske pulled himself out of the car and into the muggy air, and entered the building at 300 Indiana Avenue, home to the D.C. Police Homicide Division. After passing through security and being directed by a uniformed police officer, he stopped at a desk. He had tried his father once again from the morgue, but still no answer. Frustrated, he was now also worried that his father had somehow found out and was on his way up here.
He looked down at the card the attendant at the morgue had given him. “Detective Buford Chandler, please,” he said, looking down at the young woman behind the desk.
“And you are?” The sharp angle of her neck, and her superior tone, immediately made Fiske want to stuff her in one of her own desk drawers.
“John Fiske. Detective Chandler is investigating my brother’s … my brother’s murder. His name was Michael Fiske.” She stared at him, no recognition on her features. “He was a clerk at the Supreme Court,” he added.
She glanced at some papers on her desk. “And somebody killed him?”
“This is the Homicide Division, isn’t it?” She settled her gaze back on him, her look of annoyance pronounced. He continued: “Yes, somebody killed him” — he glanced down at the nameplate on her desk — “Ms. Baxter.”
“Well, what exactly can I do for you?”
“I’d like to see Detective Chandler.”
“Is he expecting you?”
Fiske leaned forward and spoke in a low voice. “Not exactly, but — ”
“Then I’m afraid he’s not in,” she said, cutting him off.
“I think if you put a call into — ” Fiske stopped and watched as she turned away from him and started typing on her computer. “Look, I really need to see Detective Chandler.”
She typed as she spoke. “Let me educate you on the situation here, okay? We have lots of cases and not too many detectives. We don’t have time for every drop-in off the street. We have to have priorities. I’m sure you can understand that.” Her voice drifted off as she looked at the computer screen.
Fiske leaned forward until his face was only a couple of inches from the woman. When she looked around, they were eye to eye. “Let me make you understand something. I came up from Richmond to identify the remains of my brother at Detective Chandler’s request. I did that. My brother is dead. And right about now the medical examiner is cutting a Y incision in his chest so that he can lift out his insides, organ by organ. Then he’s going to take a saw and cut an intermastoid incision like a wedge of pie through his skull, right about here.” Fiske made an imaginary cut along Ms. Baxter’s head with his finger, overcoming a very strong impulse to snatch up a handful of the woman’s permed blond hair. “That’s so he can lift out his brain and trace the path of the bullet that killed him and perhaps get some shell fragments. Now, I thought I’d come and have a chat with Detective Chandler and see if he and I can come up with some leads on who might have killed him.”
She said coldly, “Well, that’s not your job, is it? We have enough problems without family members getting involved in police investigations. I’m sure Detective Chandler will be in touch if he needs you.” She again turned away from him.
Fiske gripped the edge of her desk and took a deep breath, trying his best not to lose it. “Look, I can understand the caseload problem you must have here, and the fact that you don’t know me from Adam — ”
“I’m really busy right now, sir. So if you have a problem, I suggest you put it in writing.”
“All I want to do is talk to the man!”
“Am I going to have to call a guard, or what?”
Fiske slammed his hand down on the desk. “My brother is dead! And I would really appreciate if you would take that piss-poor attitude you’re wearing and replace it with just an ounce of compassion. And if you can’t force yourself to mean it, lady, then just pretend.”
“I’m Buford Chandler.”
Both Fiske and Baxter turned. Chandler was black, in his early fifties, with curly white hair, a matching mustache and a tall, thickened frame that managed to retain a certain athleticism from his youth. He wore an empty shoulder holster, a smudge of pistol oil on his shirt where the grip had lain against it. He looked Fiske up and down from behind a pair of trifocals.
“I’m John Fiske.”
“I heard. In fact I’ve been standing over here listening to the whole thing.”
“Then you know what he said to me, Detective Chandler?” Baxter said.
“Every word.”
“And don’t you have something to say?”
“Yes, I do.”
Baxter looked over at Fiske with a look of satisfaction on her face. “Well?”
“I think this young man gave you some pretty good advice.” Chandler hooked a finger at Fiske. “Let’s talk.”
Chandler and Fiske made their way through busy hallways to a small, cluttered office. “Have a seat.” Chandler pointed to the only chair in the room other than the one behind his desk. There were files stacked on the chair. “Just put those on the floor.” Chandler held up a warning finger. “Be careful you don’t taint any evidence. These days if I belch while I’m looking at tissue samples, all I’m going to hear is, ‘Inadmissible! Free my mass-murdering sonofabitch of a client.’”
Fiske very carefully moved the files while Chandler settled behind his desk.
“Now, I don’t want you feeling sorry for what you said to Judy Baxter.”
“I wasn’t planning on it.”
Chandler suppressed a smile. “Okay, first things first. I’m sorry about your brother.”
“Thank you,” Fiske said in a subdued manner.
“Probably the first time you heard that since arriving up here, isn’t it?”
“Actually, it is.”
“So you were in law enforcement?” Chandler casually remarked, then smiled at Fiske’s surprise. “The average citizen doesn’t usually know about Y incisions and inter-mastoid cuts. With the way you got in Ms. Baxter’s face, the manner in which you carry yourself, and your build, I’d say you were a patrolman.”
“Past tense?”
“If you were still on the force the folks in Richmond would’ve told me when we contacted them. And besides, I know very few police officers who wear suits off duty.”
“Right on all counts. I’m glad you were assigned to this case, Detective Chandler.”
“You and forty-two other active cases.” Fiske shook his head, and Chandler continued: “Budgetary cuts and all. I don’t even have a partner anymore.”
“So in other words, don’t expect any miracles?”
“I will do my best to catch whoever killed your brother. But I can give no guarantees.”
“Then how about a little unofficial help?”
“How do you mean?”
“I worked a lot of homicides with the detectives down in Richmond. Learned a lot, remember a lot. Maybe I can be your new partner.”
“Officially, that’s absolutely impossible.”
“Officially, I absolutely understand.”
“What do you do now?”
“I’m a criminal defense attorney,” said Fiske. Chandler rolled his eyes. “And I take pride in my work too, Detective Chandler.”
Chandler nodded over Fiske’s shoulder toward the door. “Shut that, will you?” He remained silent until Fiske did so and returned to his seat.
“Now, despite my better judgment, I will take your offer of assistance under advisement.”
Fiske shook his head. “I’m here now. Considering that after forty-eight hours the success rate on homicides heads to China, that’s not going to cut it.” Fiske thought this might set the man off, but Chandler remained calm.
“You got a business card where you can be reached?” Chandler asked.
Fiske passed across his card after writing his home number on the back.
In return, Chandler handed him a card with a series of phone numbers on it. “Office, home, beeper, fax, cell phone — when I remember to carry it, which I never do.”
Chandler opened a file on his desk and studied it. Reading upside down, Fiske saw his brother’s name on the label. “I was told he was killed during a robbery.”
“That’s what the prelim indicated anyway.”
Fiske caught the odd tone in Chandler’s voice. “And has that opinion changed?”
“It was only a prelim to begin with.” He closed the file and looked at Fiske. “The facts of this case, at least what we know so far, are pretty simple. Your brother was found in the front seat of his car in an alleyway near the Anacostia River with a gunshot contact wound to the right side of his head and an exit wound on the left. Looked to be fairly heavy caliber. We have not found the slug, but that search continues. The killer could have found it and taken it with him so that we couldn’t do a ballistics test, if we ever get a gun to do a match.”
“It would take a cool hand to root around in an alley looking for a slug while a dead body is sitting a few feet away.”
“I agree. But again, the bullet may still be found.”
“I understand his wallet was missing.”
“Let’s put it another way. No wallet was found on him. Was he in the habit of not carrying one?”
Fiske looked away for an instant. “We haven’t seen each other much the last few years, but I think you can assume he was carrying a wallet. So you didn’t find it in his apartment?”
“Give me a little slack, John. Your brother’s body was only found yesterday.” Chandler opened his notebook and picked up a pen. “The alley where he was found is a high-use drug area, among other things. To your knowledge was he a drug user? Casual or otherwise?”
“No. He was not a drug user.”
“But you can’t be sure, can you? You just said you hadn’t seen much of each other. Right?”
“My brother set the highest goals for himself with everything he did, and then he surpassed those goals. Drugs did not enter into that equation.”
“Any idea why he would’ve been in that area?”
“No, but he could have been kidnapped somewhere else and driven there.”
“Any reason why someone would want him dead?”
“I can’t think of a one.”
“No enemies? Jealous boyfriends? Money problems?”
“No. But again I’m probably not the best source for that. Do you have a prelim on the time of death?”
“Pretty vague. I’m waiting on the official word. Why?”
“I just came from the morgue. I felt my brother’s hand. It was soft, supple. Rigor had long since passed. What was the condition of the body when it was found last night?”
“Let’s just say he had been there awhile.”
“That’s surprising. From what you said, it’s not an isolated area.”
“True, but in that area dead bodies in alleys aren’t all that uncommon. Then again, about ninety-nine percent of the homicides in that area involve black victims for the very simple fact that whites just don’t frequent the place.”
“So my brother should have stood out, you’re saying. Any ATM withdrawals? Credit card purchases?”
“We’re checking all that. When did you last speak with your brother?”
“He called me over a week ago.”
“What’d he say?”
“I wasn’t in. He left a message. Said he needed my advice on something.”
“Did you call him back?”
“Not until recently.”
“Why’d you wait?”
“It wasn’t high on my priority list.”
“Is that right?” Chandler twirled his pen between his fingers. “Tell me something. Did you even like your brother?”
Fiske looked at him squarely. “Somebody killed my brother. I want to catch whoever did it. And that’s really all I’m going to say about it.”
The look in Fiske’s eyes made Chandler decide to move on. “Maybe he wanted to talk about something to do with work? See, what makes this case intriguing is your brother’s occupation.”
“Meaning, is his murder related to something at the Supreme Court?”
“It’s a long shot, absolutely, but what you just told me about your brother’s phone call might just make it slightly less of a long shot than it seemed a minute ago.”
“I doubt if he wanted my two cents on the latest abortion case.”
“Then what? How to pick up women?”
“You must not have seen a picture of him. He never needed help with that one.”
“I have seen a picture of him, but the dead don’t photograph all that well. But he said he wanted some advice. Maybe it was legal.”
“Well, you can always make a trip to the Court to see if there are any conspiracies going on up there.”
“We have to tread lightly, you know.”
“We?”
“I’m sure your brother has personal effects there, and it would not be unusual for next of kin to visit his place of work. I’m assuming you’ve been there before?”
“Once, when Mike first started. My dad and I.”
“And your mother?”
“Alzheimer’s.”
“Sorry to hear that.”
“Any other developments?”
In answer, Chandler rose, took down his jacket from a hanger on the back of the door and slipped it on. “I’d like to take you down to your brother’s car.”
“And after that?”
Chandler checked his watch before looking up and smiling. “Then we’ll have just enough time to go to Court, Counselor.”
CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO
Rufus watched the door as it slowly opened. He braced himself for the sight of a mass of men in green fatigues moving in on him, but then his apprehension slid away when he saw who it was.
“Time to check me again?”