The Night Gardener (18 page)

“The murders stopped when he went away.”

“Right. For nineteen years and change. He ain’t been out but a few months and now they started again.”

“It’s possible he’s the one,” said Holiday. “But the only thing you’ve really got is that Wilson’s prone to violence and is sexually attracted to kids. Pedophilia’s a long way off from murder.”

“It’s a kind of murder.”

“You won’t get an argument from me there. But basically you’ve got nothing. We’d be hard-pressed to get a warrant to search his house. That is, if we were still police.”

“I know it.”

“Does he have a job?”

“Man’s on paper, he got to. Takes cash at an all-night gas-and-convenience station down on Central Avenue. Works different shifts there, including the late. I know, ’cause I tailed him, more than once.”

“We could check with his PO, get his hours, talk to his employer. See if he was working the night Johnson was killed.”

“Uh-huh,” said Cook with no enthusiasm.

“That’s no palace,” said Holiday, looking at the white rancher, “but this is a pretty fair neighborhood for a guy like him to land in right out of prison.”

“It’s his parents’ house. They died while he was in the joint, and as he was their only child, it went to him. There’s no nut on it; all he has to do is pay the taxes. The Buick’s not his, either.”

“No shit. Got to be his father’s. Only old men drive Buicks.” Holiday winced. “I didn’t mean —”

“There he is,” said Cook, who had not taken offense and had kept his eyes on the house.

Holiday saw the curtain on the bay window part and, behind it, the indistinguishable face of a middle-aged man. It looked like a shadow and disappeared as the curtain drifted back into place.

“He’s seen you out here?” said Holiday.

“I don’t know if he has or hasn’t. And you know what? I just don’t give a morning crap. ’Cause eventually he’s gonna make a mistake.”

“We need more information about the Johnson death.”

“You saw the body.”

“I was at the crime scene, too, the next day.”

“Damn, boy, did you speak to anyone?”

“Not yet. I know the homicide detective who caught it. Guy named Gus Ramone.”

“Will he talk to you?”

“I don’t know. Me and the Ramone have a history.”

“What’d you do, fuck his wife?”

“Worse,” said Holiday. “Ramone was in charge of the IAD investigation that was trying to take me down. I didn’t let him finish the job.”

“Beautiful,” said Cook.

“That guy’s strictly by the book.”

“Be nice if you could talk to him, just the same.”

“He pulls that stick out of his ass,” said Holiday, “maybe I will.”

A
FTER A COUPLE
of bonefish sandwiches with hot sauce and tartar from an eat-shack on Benning Road, Ramone and Rhonda Willis drove to the Metropolitan Police Academy, set on Blue Plains Drive in a clear tract of acreage between the Anacostia Freeway and South Capitol Street, in Southwest. They passed the K-9 training unit, located on the grounds, and the barracks where both of them had once stayed, and parked in a lot nearly full of cars and buses.

The academy looked like any high school, with standard-sized classrooms on the upper floors and a gymnasium, swimming pool, and extensive workout facilities below. Veteran police, including Ramone, used the weight room and pool to stay in shape. Rhonda’s vanity had shrunk with the birth of each successive child, and she had not exercised in many years. If she managed to put together a half hour of free time, Rhonda felt that a hot bath and a glass of wine were more valuable to her physical and mental health than a visit to the gym could ever be.

Entering the building, they noticed that the trim and rails had been painted a bright, almost neon shade of purple.

“That’s soothing,” said Rhonda. “Wonder what committee of geniuses decided to use that color.”

“I guess Sherwin-Williams was all out of pink.”

They badged a police officer inside the entrance and proceeded up to the second floor. It was afternoon, and many cops were in shorts and sweats, using weight machines, treadmills, and free weights before reporting to their four-to-midnights. Ramone and Rhonda stood on a landing overlooking the gymnasium.

“There’s the man I’m looking for,” said Ramone. “He’s showin them something he learned at Jhoon Rhee.”

In the painted lane extending out from under a basketball hoop, a uniformed officer was demonstrating to a large group of recruits the proper stance and motion of a punch. His left hand came up choplike to protect his face as he threw a right, turned his hip into it, and pivoted his rear foot. The group then attempted to copy his action.

“That was us, not too long ago,” said Rhonda.

“They got a higher class of po-lice comin in now. You need a two-year associate’s degree to get accepted these days.”

“That would have prevented me from getting in. And you know, they’d have pushed away a good cop.”

“It does stop the retards from joining the force.”

“Gus, someday you gonna learn the correct terms for this new century we’re in.”

“Okay. The mental defectives.”

“You see those Caucasian girls down there?” Rhonda nodded at the numerous white female recruits on the floor. “They get out on the street, most of ’em gonna wash out or land behind a desk in about two weeks.”

“Now, why you gotta go there?”

“You know that blond lieutenant, the girl you always see on television, that spokeswoman? She never did walk hard pavement in any of the hot wards. Made her name protecting those pale gentrifiers from the negroes loitering on the sidewalks in Shaw. The MPD just keeps promoting her ’cause that porcelain skin and blond hair look good on camera.”

“Rhonda.”

“I’m just sayin.”

“My mother’s white.”

“She’s Italian. And you know what I’m sayin is true.”

“Let me catch this guy,” said Ramone, as the instructor disbanded the group of recruits.

“I’ll meet you downstairs.”

Ramone took the stairwell, passing the doorway to the indoor swimming pool. As it always did when he descended these stairs, the movie in his head rewound to his first full year on the force. It was through the frame of that same open doorway that he had gotten his initial look at Regina, standing in her blue one-piece suit on the pool’s edge, looking into the water, preparing to dive. The sight of her, muscular but all woman, with shapely buttocks and nice stand-up breasts, had literally stopped him in his tracks. He was not a guy who was particularly adept at talking to the opposite sex, nor did he have the striking good looks to compensate for his lack of game, but he was not afraid, and he walked right into the pool area, introduced himself, and shook her hand. Please let her be as nice as she is beautiful, he thought, as his hand gripped her smooth fingers and palm. Her big brown eyes drooped a bit with her smile, and, swear to God, he knew.

She wasn’t a cop for long. Six months of training, another month of riding with someone experienced, then a year as a rookie on patrol, and Regina had had enough. She said she realized the first week on the street that it wasn’t for her. That she wanted to help people in some way, not lock them up. She went back to college, got her education degree, and taught for a few years at Drew Elementary in Far Northeast. When Diego was born, she changed up again and became a full-time mother and part-time school volunteer. In his prayers at church, Ramone sometimes gave thanks for Regina’s ill-advised decision to join the MPD. Ramone knew that if he had not been walking down those stairs that day, passing by that door, and if she had not been contemplating that dive, he would not have what he had today. And to him, what he had was everything. Not that he wasn’t fully capable of fucking it up.

The strange thing was, he hadn’t even planned on marriage and a family, but they had come to him, and it was right. All because of the path he had taken one afternoon, and a woman who had hesitated before entering a pool. Like most folks, he wasn’t always certain about the existence of a higher power, but he damn sure did believe in fate.

Ramone crossed the gymnasium floor. He caught the eye of the instructor, John Ramirez, and waited until the last recruit had gone toward the lockers. Ramirez, with a weight-room chest and arms, gave him a weak handshake and cool eyes.

“Johnny.”

“Gus. Enjoying the new job?”

“I been at it for a while now.”

“Must be more satisfying to lock up bad guys than your fellow officers, right?”

“It was all the same to me. If they’re wrong they’re wrong, you know what I mean?”

It wasn’t true. Ramone had always known the import and consequence of going after cops who had abused their powers or committed minor crimes. But he wasn’t going to let a guy like Johnny Ramirez, a hothead who had gone from street cop with insecurity issues to gym teacher with a badge, beat him up about his stint at IAD. Ramone had learned how to investigate cases there, done his job with competence but not vengeance, and used the experience as a bridge to Homicide.

“Not really,” said Ramirez. “I really don’t know what you mean.”

Generally, Ramone had not had any trouble with his fellow officers when he’d worked Internal Affairs. Most cops did not want to be around other cops who were unclean because they tainted the straight ones by association. He had never been fish-eyed by other uniforms, had never heard the words
rat squad
uttered in his presence, and had never had a police move off his bar stool when Ramone stepped up to the stick. IAD was a necessary element of policing, and most cops accepted it. Ramirez was a former drinking buddy of Holiday’s, and he simply didn’t like Ramone because of what had happened to his friend.

“Listen, I don’t want take up too much of your time. I was wondering if you’ve seen Dan Holiday lately. If you guys were still friends…”

“Yeah, I’ve seen him. Why?”

“I’m just looking to get up with him. It’s a private matter.”

“Oh, it’s private. He runs a limo service; maybe that helps.”

“I heard.”

“But I don’t have his number or anything. Shouldn’t be too hard for you to find it, though.”

“Okay, Johnny. Thanks.”

“You want me to tell him you’re looking for him, in case we cross paths?”

“No, don’t do that. I wanna surprise him.”

Of course, Ramone knew that Ramirez would call Holiday straight away, which was why Ramone had sought him out. He wanted Holiday to think about it before he came up on him. It would eliminate the bullshit half of the conversation if Holiday knew.

“See you around, Ramirez.”

Ramone found Rhonda at the turn of the stairwell, looking at a wall covered with the framed photographs of MPD officers killed in the line of duty. She was standing before the photo of a genial young policeman she had known well when both of them were in uniform. He had been shot to death during a seemingly routine traffic stop. Rhonda’s eyes were closed, and Ramone knew that she was saying a prayer for her friend. He waited until she turned to him, unsurprised at his presence.

“You get what you needed from Ramirez?” said Rhonda.

“Officer Ramirez was just telling me how much he admired my work in Internal Affairs.”

“So you’re not gonna tell me.”

“Oh, all right. I was asking him out on a date. One bottle of pop and two straws, something like that.”

“Okay, then. I need to get back to the office, do some background on our boy Dominique.”

Ramone said he’d take her there.

BECAUSE OF ITS PROXIMITY
to the majority of the dropped bodies in the city, the Violent Crime Branch of the MPD was located in Southeast, but the offices of most of the other specialized units, such as Morals, Sex Assault, and Domestic Violence, were in the same facility as police headquarters, at 300 Indiana Avenue, Northwest. Ramone arrived at the building soon after leaving Rhonda in the VCB lot and picking up his Tahoe. He went straight to the offices of the Cold Case Squad.

Unsolved homicides moved from VCB to Cold Case after three years. Some homicide police disparaged the work of cold case detectives, as most of the old murders that got “solved” had little to do with investigative prowess or forensic science and more to do with criminals offering up unexpected information in exchange for a reduction in their sentences. These same homicide detectives who felt that the cold casers hadn’t earned their closes were conveniently forgetting that this was how many warm homicide cases got put to bed as well.

Ramone had no such resentment. The members of the Cold Case squad were not the sexy, sunglasses-wearing hotshots with toned bodies and beautiful faces seen on TV, but rather were middle-aged men and women with paunches, families, and credit card debt, doing a job, just like those in the VCB. He had worked with some of them in other capacities through the years.

He found Detective James Dalton at his desk. Ramone had done many favors for Dalton in the past and hoped for the same in return. Dalton was lean, with gray hair, a white dude with Chinese eyes. He had grown up in northern Montana, come to D.C. in the ’70s intending to do social work, and wound up as police. He often said that he had gone from one small town to another when he moved to Washington. “More people, same attitude.”

“Thanks for doing this,” said Ramone.

“File was already pulled,” said Dalton. “We’re waitin around on the ME’s report before we decide if it’s something we ought to be involved with. You weren’t the only one to notice the similarities.”

“If you’ve been around long enough…”

“Right. File’s over there on the desk. It’s a big one.”

“That’s what
she
said.”

“Huh?”

“Dumb old joke.”

“You’re not the primary on this, are you?”

“Garloo Wilkins,” said Ramone. “I knew the decedent. Friend of my son’s. You mind if I look it over and take some notes?”

“Go right ahead. I’m outta here.”

Perfect, thought Ramone.

For the next two hours, Ramone read the extensive case files on the Palindrome Murders. Included in the official police reports were archived news reports from the
Washington Post
and a long historical piece from the
Washington City Paper
. Dalton had given him the opportunity by clocking out, so Ramone burned copies of what he thought he might need on the office Xerox, counter to policy. He put the copies in an empty brown file container that Dalton had helpfully left on the desk, and carried it under his arm from the headquarters building to his Tahoe.

Under the wheel, he dialed Wilkins’s cell.

“Hey, Bill, it’s Gus.”

“What’s going on?”

“I think you should call the ME and order a sex kit on the Asa Johnson autopsy.”

“They’ll do it without my order.”

“Call them anyway and make sure it’s done.”

“Why?”

“We all just want to be thorough.”

“Right.”

“Anything today?”

“I spoke with the principal at Asa’s middle school. But I’m having a little trouble with the boy’s father. I wanted to go by the house and get into Asa’s room, but Terrance Johnson told me he wanted you to have a look at it first.”

“I apologize, Bill. They’ve been knowing me for a while, is all it is. I’m going to swing by their house later and while I’m there I’ll set him straight.”

“It’s my investigation, Gus.”

“Absolutely. I’ve got a few more calls to make this afternoon. We can talk when I see you.”

“All right, buddy. Take care.”

Ramone ended the call. No reason to mention the possible connection to an old, unsolved series of homicides. He told himself that it would just cloud Garloo’s mind.

Ramone headed uptown.