One to Go (20 page)

An hour later he settled on potassium permanganate, a common chemical used to clear iron from well water. If ingested in the proper dose, the chemical could cause death after ten to fifteen minutes.

The café had several small canisters mounted on the wall dispensing disinfectant wipes to clean keyboards after use. Tom made sure to wipe not only the keys, but the entire work station before leaving.

Heading back to DC, he pulled into a shopping center and ditched his Orioles jacket and cap into a dumpster behind a Kmart.

Driving west on Route 50 toward the city, he struggled to come up with a way to get his target to ingest the poison, but could come up with nothing. He had until Friday to develop a
plan. Otherwise, he'd have to use Mr. Glock and make it look like some kind of drug-related killing.

What if he couldn't find a substitute for LaRyn? Would he point the gun at a nineteen-year-old mother and pull the trigger?

He didn't think he could do it.

The next several days moved way too quickly. Tom became more anxious as no alternative candidate emerged who fit his criteria.

Tuesday, he'd obtained a different jacket and hat from the Goodwill store on Route 1 in Prince Georges County, donned his sunglasses, and purchased a half gallon of liquid potassium permanganate from a plumbing supply store in Waldorf, a town an hour southeast of the city.

He'd redoubled his efforts to find another victim, reviewing files on the desks of other PDS attorneys after hours. No matter what she'd done, he couldn't conceive of killing LaRyn Walker.

By Wednesday, he'd still come up with nothing.

At home, he'd smelled the chemical and found it had a strong, unpleasant odor. Worse, he touched a dab of the liquid to his tongue, and the taste was so bitter he immediately spit it out. No way he could get anyone to drink the potassium, even if mixed with booze. In Annapolis, he'd made a handwritten list of other possible household poisons, but all apparently had a strong taste.

What the hell was he going to do?

As was his routine, Thursday morning he awoke to
Good Morning America
, and kept the jabbering going on a low volume while he dressed. In the middle of the night he'd become resigned to the fact he'd have to proceed with LaRyn.

Brushing his teeth, he could hear the show's medical contributor
discussing the need for parents to be aware of the most recent trend in teen drinking. Curious, he entered the living room and turned up the volume while finishing his brushing.

“
It's called Butt Chugging, George. I guess we can use that word on morning TV. (chuckles) So as to speed up the inebriation process and avoid the smell of alcohol on their breath, both guys and girls will soak a tampon in booze. The guys insert the soaked tampon into their rectums, the girls into their vaginas. In the case of the girls, the slang term is P-Chugging
.”

“
I know we can't say what the ‘P' stands for on morning TV,” said George. (more chuckles
)

“
When consumed orally,” said the doctor, “the beverage is subjected to stomach secretions, which partially neutralize the alcohol, and slow down its path to the brain through the bloodstream. But when alcohol is ingested directly into the rectum or vagina and moves immediately into the bloodstream, the chances of serious impairment, brain damage, or even death increase dramatically
.”

A possibility? Maybe. All he had to do was convince LaRyn to stick a poison-laced tampon up her vagina. What could conceivably go wrong?

He decided he needed to act that evening instead of waiting until Friday. A million things could go wrong, and he wanted the extra time just in case. Also, the online data had been less than clear concerning how long it would take for death to occur. What if it wasn't instantaneous? What if it took hours, or even a day? The idea of death coming half a day later was appealing, since he would've been long gone. Hopefully, the cops would believe she was killed by a john or even her pimp. Did she have a pimp? Hadn't heard any mention of one, but even if not, she traveled in that netherworld where life was cheap, and there was a good chance her file would end up on the bottom of the pile. The problem, of course, was any delay in her succumbing would give her or someone who found her the opportunity to call 911.

He called LaRyn from the car. He had no problem if his number showed up on her phone log. Hide in plain sight. He'd
wondered if he should buy a box of tampons, but concluded the chances of the young woman having tampons was very high, so why take a chance on another camera.

He was surprised when she answered on the first ring. He could hear traffic in the background and assumed she was working the streets. When he suggested they reschedule their session for later that evening, she put up no resistance.

It was near eleven when he drove north on 4
^th
Street toward Howard University, passed U Street, and turned right on V Street.
V for vagina
. He found the dilapidated garden apartment halfway down the street, and after parking, entered the building. In one jacket pocket he carried a pint bottle of Grey Goose vodka. He'd emptied out all of the liquor and replaced it with the potassium permanganate. The smell was weird, but enough odor remained from the vodka to hopefully conceal it. On Florida Avenue he'd pulled into a gas station and, after wiping away any fingerprints, tossed the original bottle of potassium permanganate in a trash roll-off behind the building.

In the other pocket he carried his pal, Mr. Glock, just in case.

LaRyn answered after one knock.

She looked bad—eyelids at half-mast, hair shooting out in all directions, makeup that appeared to have been applied in the dark. She swayed in the doorway, and had to hold onto the doorjamb to keep from falling.

“You the CJA, right?”

“Yeah. Tom Booker.” He extended his hand. She stared at it as if she'd never seen someone offer to shake her hand before.

“What happened to the blond dude?”

“I'm the substitute. Remember, I represented you in court? Got you out of jail?” She squinted, clearly trying to focus her brain cells, then shrugged and stepped aside.

He imagined her apartment as a hovel, a carbon copy of Mackey's place, and was surprised to find the opposite was the case. A small, circular dining table separated a living room from a tiny kitchen. A short hallway led to three doors. One opened to a bathroom, the other two were closed. The living room furniture was old and the TV ancient. Still, the room appeared neat and clean. He saw a large milk glass half full of an amber liquid. Good chance it wasn't iced tea. The kitchen counter was clear, and Tom detected the faint smell of lemon typical of numerous household cleaning agents.

“Nice place.”

For a moment, a flicker of life appeared in her dead eyes. “Thanks. My momma, she the assistant supervisor of housekeeping
down the Marriott. She kick my ass hard if my place ain't clean. She always tell me, no matter how bad things get in your life, never too poor to buy soap, and there be no excuse for a dirty house.”

When he got closer to her, he could smell the heavy booze on her breath. She was still wearing her work uniform—tight, shiny-blue shorts that left little to the imagination and a red halter top. He spotted a pair of red platform heels under a small coffee table.

She stepped into the kitchen and retrieved a half-filled bottle of bourbon, then moved unsteadily toward the table. She gestured toward the bourbon. “Uh, you want a drink? Also got a Coke in the fridge I think.”

He knew he should take the Coke, but figured she would trust him more if he drank with her. He'd only take a small sip or two.

“I'll have what you're having. Thanks.”

LaRyn nodded, pulled another milk glass from a cupboard, and filled it halfway with the bourbon. “First time my CJA come to me. Always had to go downtown.”

“Door-to-door service,” he said with a smile, then sat at the table.

“You ain't got no briefcase,” she said.

“Photographic memory.” He smiled and tapped his temple. “So, tell me about yourself. The more the jury likes you, the better chance of a favorable result.”

“I ain't coppin' a plea?” She took a seat across from him and set the glass of bourbon in front of her.

“We'll always have that option, but given your record, my first goal is trying to keep you out of jail, and the best way to do that is either to persuade one juror there's a reasonable doubt of your guilt, or to persuade the AUSA there's a chance he might end up with an acquittal and he better cut a favorable deal.”

She nodded and took a stiff drink. “What you want to know?”

Actually, the less I know about you, the easier it will be for me. “How did you get into your current profession?”

She shrugged and took another drink. “Got knocked up
when I was fifteen. Dropped out of school to take care of my baby. Figured once the baby was old enough, I'd get my GED.”

“And the father?”

“He dead. Then needed some money for Sherril, she my little girl, and started workin' the Circle. Didn't need to be out late. White boys goin' home from work, they be gone by seven. If all's they wants is a blow job, I can make enough I come home early. They want more, cost more but take more time, so sometimes after seven I go down H Street, pick up a few extra clients. Mama, she take care of my babies while I'm workin'.”

He needed to keep her talking, get her to look to him as something more than her lawyer. He took a sip of bourbon. “Your other children. Same father?”

“All different. James, he Vernon's daddy, he got himself a government job. Soon's he save enough, he says we gonna get married. In a church and everything.”

“And James doesn't mind your current activities?”

She looked at him curiously. “You mean whorin'? James knows it's just business.” Her glass, now, was almost empty. “You want to talk about that bitch, LaToya?”

“Yeah, sure. Mind if I use your bathroom?”

She pointed down the hall. Tom took his almost full glass of bourbon with him, making a show of sipping from it as he walked. He entered the bathroom and closed the door. He quickly opened the drawer under the sink and found what he was looking for—a half-filled box of tampons. He emptied almost all of the bourbon into the toilet, then filled the glass with the potassium permanganate from the Grey Goose bottle. The small amount of bourbon left in the glass was sufficient to tint the liquid amber, although much paler than the original bourbon. He assumed she wouldn't notice. He flushed the toilet, removed two tampons from the box, and returned to LaRyn.

She was drinking from her refilled glass, and Tom could see she had trouble holding the glass steady. Okay, it was showtime. He was about to speak when she looked up at him and smiled.

“I like you better than the blond dude.”

Jesus God, what was he about to do? Kill this young woman because she'd tried to cut off her cheating boyfriend's penis and done a shitty job of it? No, of course not. It was either her or Janie, and Janie hadn't killed anybody. But at that moment LaRyn looked so young, little more than a child herself. The daughter of a woman working for hope, hope that someday her daughter will clean herself up, get a legitimate job, and be a real mother to her kids. The clean house showed there was something good inside this girl, something worth saving.

She'd poured some more bourbon into her glass. “Want some more?”

He couldn't take his eyes off the milk glass resting on the table in front of him, looking no more dangerous than a glass of weak iced tea. No. He couldn't do it. He needed to ask a few questions about her confrontation with LaToya, then get the hell out of there. He'd have forty-eight hours to come up with someone else. Maybe he'd just drive down to Southeast, find a dealer on a corner and blast away. A drive-by shooting like on TV. Like he'd originally planned weeks ago.