The Night Gardener (2 page)

As these movers of the Reagan generation entertained themselves west of Rock Creek Park and in the suburbs, detectives and techs worked at a crime scene at 33rd and E, in the neighborhood of Greenway, in Southeast D.C. They could not know that this would be the last victim of the Palindrome Killer. For now, there was only a dead teenager, one of three unsolved, and someone out there, somewhere, doing the murders.

On a cool rainy night in December 1985, two young uniformed police and a middle-aged homicide detective were on the scene.

T
HE WIRY LITTLE
man in the box, sitting low in his chair, was William Tyree. In the opposite chair was Detective Paul “Bo” Green. A can of Coca-Cola and an ashtray holding dead Newports sat on the rectangular table between them. The room stank of nicotine and the crack sweat coming off Tyree.

“Those the kicks you were wearing?” said Green, pointing at Tyree’s shoes. “Those right there?”

“These here are the Huaraches,” said Tyree.

“Those shoes you’ve got on right now, you saying you weren’t wearing those yesterday?”

“Nah, uh-uh.”

“Tell me something, William. What size you wear?”

Tyree’s hair held specks of fuzz. A small cut, now congealed, was visible below his left eye.

“These here are nine and a half,” said Tyree. “I wear tens most times. You know them Nikes be runnin big.”

Detective Sergeant Gus Ramone, watching the interview on a monitor in a space adjacent to the interrogation room, allowed himself the first smile of the day. Even being questioned for murder, even under the fluorescent lights of an interrogation, a man damn near always felt the need to lie about or explain away his shoe size.

“Okay,” said Green, his hands folded on the table before him. “So those Nikes you got on now… you telling me you weren’t wearing those yesterday?”

“I was wearin Nikes. But not these ones, no.”

“Which type were you wearing, William? What I mean specifically is, which type of Nikes were you wearing when you visited your ex-wife yesterday at her apartment?”

Green’s brow wrinkled as he considered the question. “It was the Twenties.”

“Yeah? My son has those.”

“They’re popular with the young ones.”

“The black Twenties?”

“Uh-uh. I got the white with the blue.”

“So, if we were to go to your apartment, would we find a pair of white Twenties, size nine and a half?”

“They ain’t at my apartment no more.”

“Where are they?”

“I put ’em in a bag with some other stuff.”

“What other stuff?”

“The jeans and T-shirt I was wearin yesterday.”

“The jeans and T-shirt you had on when you visited your ex-wife?”

“Uh-huh.”

“What kind of bag?”

“One of those bags from Safeway.”

“A grocery bag, says Safeway on it?”

Tyree nodded his head. “One of those plastic ones they got.”

“You put anything else in that bag?”

“Besides my clothes and sneaks?”

“Yes, William.”

“I put a knife in there, too.”

Detective Anthony Antonelli, seated beside an impassive Ramone in the video monitor room, leaned forward. Bo Green, in the box, did the same. William Tyree did not pull back from the space that Green was invading. He had been sharing the box with Green for several hours now, and he had grown comfortable with his presence.

Green had started slowly, small-talking Tyree but dancing around the murder of Jacqueline Taylor. Green and Tyree had gone to the same high school, Ballou, though not at the same time. Green had known Tyree’s older brother, Jason, a pretty fair Interhigh baseball player, now with the post office. They had talked about the old neighborhood, and where the best fish sandwich could be gotten in the 1980s, and how the music had been more positive, and how parents watched their kids more closely, and if they couldn’t, how the neighbors chipped in and helped.

Green, a bearish man with gentle eyes, always took his time and, through his familiarity with the area and the many families he had come to know over the years, endeared himself, eventually, to many of the suspects in the interrogation room, especially those of a certain generation. He became their friend and confidant. Ramone was the primary on the Jacqueline Taylor case, but he had allowed Green to conduct the crucial interview. It appeared that Green was about to close this now.

“What kind of knife, William?”

“A big knife I had in my kitchen. You know, for cutting meat.”

“Like a butcher knife?”

“Somethin like that.”

“And you put the knife and the clothing in the bag.…”

“ ’Cause the knife had blood on it,” said Tyree, like he was explaining the obvious to a child.

“And your clothing and shoes?”

“They had blood on ’em, too.”

“Where’d you put the bag?”

“You know that Popeyes down there on Pennsylvania, near where Minnesota comes in?”

“Uh-huh?”

“There’s a liquor store across the street from it.…”

“Penn Liquors.”

“Nah, farther down. The one got a Jewish name to it.”

“You talking about Saul’s?”

“Yeah, that one. I put the bag in the Dumpster they got out back in the alley.”

“Out back of Saul’s?”

“Uh-huh. Last night.”

Green nodded casually, as if someone had just told him the score of a ball game or that he had left the lights on in his car.

In the video room, Ramone opened the door and shouted to Detective Eugene Hornsby, his ass parked against a desk, half-seated, half-standing beside Detective Rhonda Willis, both of them in the big office area of VCB.

“We got it,” said Ramone, and both Hornsby and Rhonda Willis straightened their postures. “Gene, you know that liquor store, Saul’s, on Pennsylvania?”

“Over there by Minnesota?” said Hornsby, a completely average-looking man of thirty-eight years who had come up in the infamous part of Northeast known as Simple City.

“Yeah. Mr. Tyree says he dumped a butcher knife and his clothes in the Dumpster out back. And he put a pair of white-and-blue Nike Twenties in there, too, size nine and a half. It’s all in a Safeway bag.”

“Paper or plastic?” said Hornsby with a barely detectable grin.

“Plastic,” said Ramone. “It should be there.”

“If Sanitation didn’t pick up the trash yet,” said Rhonda.

“I heard
that,
” said Ramone.

“I’ll get some uniforms down there straight away,” said Hornsby, snatching a set of keys off his desk. “
And
I’ll make sure them rookies don’t fuck it up.”

“Thanks, Gene,” said Ramone. “How’s that warrant coming, Rhonda?”

“It’s comin,” said Rhonda. “Ain’t nobody going in and out of Tyree’s apartment until we get it. Got a patrol car parked right out front as we speak.”

“All right.”

“Nice one, Gus,” said Rhonda.

“That was all Bo,” said Ramone.

In the box, Bo Green got out of his seat. He looked at Tyree, who had sat up some in his chair. Tyree looked like he’d had a fever that had broken.

“I’m thirsty, William. You thirsty?”

“I could use another soda.”

“What you want, same thing?”

“Can I get a Slice this time?”

“We don’t have it. All’s we got like it is Mountain Dew.”

“That’ll work.”

“You got enough cigarettes?”

“I’m good.”

Detective Green looked at his watch, then straight up into the camera mounted high on the wall. “Three forty-two,” he said before leaving the room.

The light over the door of the interrogation room remained green, indicating that the tape was still rolling. Inside the video room, Antonelli read the sports page of the
Post
and glanced occasionally at the monitor.

Bo Green was greeted by Ramone and Rhonda Willis.

“Good one,” said Ramone.

“He
wanted
to talk,” said Green.

“Lieutenant said to come on back when you had something,” said Rhonda. “Prosecutor wants to, what’s that word,
interface
.”

“Rhonda says we drew Littleton,” said Ramone.

“Little man,” said Green.

Gus Ramone stroked his black mustache.

D
AN HOLIDAY SIGNALED
the bartender, making a grand circular motion with his index finger over glasses that were not quite empty but empty enough.

“The same way,” said Holiday. “For me and my friends.”

The men at the bar were three rounds deep into a discussion that had gone from Angelina Jolie to Santana Moss to the new Mustang GT, their points argued with vehemence, but all of it, in the end, about nothing at all. The conversation was something to hang the alcohol on. You couldn’t just sit there and drink.

On the stools sat carpet-and-floor salesman Jerry Fink, freelance writer Bradley West, a residential contractor named Bob Bonano, and Holiday. None of them had bosses. All had the kind of jobs that allowed them to drink off a workday without guilt.

They met, informally, several times a week at Leo’s, a tavern on Georgia Avenue, between Geranium and Floral, in Shepherd Park. It was a simple rectangular room with an oak bar going front to back, twelve stools and a few four-tops, and a jukebox holding obscure soul singles. The walls were freshly painted and unadorned with beer posters, pennants, or mirrors, instead showing photographs of Leo’s parents in D.C. and grandparents in their Greek village. The bar was a neighborhood watering hole, neither a bucket of blood nor a home for gentrifiers. It was simply an efficient place to get a pleasant load on in the middle of the afternoon.

“Jesus, you stink,” said Jerry Fink, sitting beside Holiday, rattling the rocks in his cocktail glass.

“It’s called Axe,” said Holiday. “The kids wear it.”

“You ain’t no kid, hombre.” Jerry Fink, raised off River Road and a graduate of Walt Whitman High, one of the finest and whitest public schools in the country, often spoke in double negatives. He felt it made him more street. He was short, had a gut, wore glasses with tinted lenses indoors, and sported a perm, which he called “my Jewfro.” Fink was forty-eight years old.

“Tell me something I don’t know.”

“I’m just askin you why you’re wearing that swill.”

“Very simple. Where I woke up this morning, I didn’t have my own toiletries close by, if you catch my drift.”

“Here we go,” said West.

Holiday grinned and squared his shoulders. He was as rail thin as he had been in his twenties. The only indicator of his forty-one years was the small belly he had acquired from years of drinking. His acquaintances called it “the Holiday Hump.”

“Tell us a bedtime story, Daddy,” said Bonano.

“Okay,” said Holiday. “I had a job yesterday, a client from NYC. Some big-shot investor looking at a company about to go public. I drove him out to an office building in the Dulles corridor, waited around a few hours, and drove him back downtown to the Ritz. So I’m goin back to my place last night, I’m feeling thirsty, I stop in to the Royal Mile in Wheaton for a short one. Soon as I walk in, I notice this brunette sitting with a couple other women. She had some mileage on the odometer, but she was attractive. We made eye contact, and her eyes spoke a million words.”

“What did her eyes say, Doc?” said West tiredly.

“They said, I’m hungry for Johnny Johnson.”

This drew head shakes.

“I didn’t make my move right away. I waited till she had to get up and take a piss. I needed to get a look at her bottom half, see, to make sure I wasn’t settin myself up for some horror show later on. Anyway, I checked her out and she was all right. She’d had babies, obviously, but there wasn’t any severe damage to speak of.”

“C’mon, man,” said Bonano.

“Be patient. Soon as she gets back from the head, I cut her from the herd real quick. It only cost me two Miller Lites. She didn’t even finish her beer before she tells me she’s ready to go.” Holiday tapped ash off his smoke. “I figured I’d take her out to the parking lot across the street, let her blow me or somethin.”

“And they say romance is dead,” said West.

“But she wasn’t having any of that,” said Holiday, missing West’s tone or ignoring it. “ ‘I’m not doing it in a car,’ she says. ‘I’m not seventeen anymore.’ No shit, I’m thinkin, but hey, I wasn’t gonna turn down some ass.”

“Even if she wasn’t seventeen,” said Jerry Fink.

“We go back to her house; she’s got a couple of kids, a teenage boy and his younger sister, they barely turn their heads away from the television when we come in.”

“What were they watching?” said Bonano.

“What difference does that make?” said Holiday.

“Makes the story better. Makes me see it, like, in my head.”

“It was one of those
Law and Order
shows,” said Holiday. “I know ’cause I heard that
duh-duh
thing they do.”

“Keep goin,” said Fink.

“Okay,” said Holiday. “She tells the kids not to stay up too late, ’cause they got school the next day, and then she takes me by the hand and we go up to her room.”

The cell phone set on the bar, before Bob Bonano, “the kitchen and bath expert,” rang. He checked the display number and did not move to answer it. If it was new business, he would take the call. If it was a customer he had already screwed, he would not. Most of the time he did not take the call. Bonano’s business was called Home Masters. Jerry Fink called it “Home Bastards” and sometimes “Home Butchers” when he was feeling expansive.

“You fucked her while her kids were downstairs, watching TV?” said Bonano, still looking at the cell phone, its ringer playing
The Good, the Bad and the Ugly
theme. Bonano, dark with big features and hands, fancied himself a cowboy but looked Italian as salami on a string.

“I put my hand over her mouth when she started to make noise,” said Holiday with a shrug. “She almost bit through my paw.”

“Quit braggin,” said Fink.

“I’m just stating a fact,” said Holiday. “This broad was an animal.”

The bartender, Leo Vazoulis, wide and balding, with thin gray hair and a black mustache, served them their drinks. Leo’s father had bought the building, cash, forty years earlier, and operated it as a lunch counter until he was felled by a heart attack. Leo had inherited the real estate and turned the diner into a bar. He had no nut beyond the taxes and utilities, and made a good living working less strenuously than his father had. This was how it was supposed to go from fathers to sons.

Leo emptied the ashtrays and walked away.

“That doesn’t explain the perfume you’re wearin,” said Fink.

“It’s deodorant,” said Holiday. “Well, the can says it’s a combination of deodorant and cologne. Some shit like that.”

“I read an article on it,” said West. “It’s like a phenomenon.”

“This morning,” said Holiday, “I’m lyin in this woman’s bed, waiting for her to get her kids off to school, figuring out my exit plan. I hear the door slam and her SUV fire up, I get out of the rack, go to her son’s bedroom, and spray whatever he’s got on his dresser under my armpits. I sprayed some down there, too, you know what I’m sayin? To get her smell off me.”

“Axe,” said Bonano, like he was trying to remember it.

“Axe
Rejuvenate
was what the can said. It’s real popular with the young men, apparently.”

“You smell like a whore,” said Fink.

Holiday stubbed out his smoke. “Your mother does, too.”

They finished their drinks and were served another round. Bonano ignored his cell calls, and Fink took one, promising a Palisades housewife that he would be out “sometime next week” to measure her rec room. Fink ended the call and went to the jukebox, dropped in quarters, and punched up a couple of tunes. They listened to an Ann Peebles tune, and then a Syl Johnson, and when the Hi rhythm section kicked in, they all moved their heads.

“How’s the novel going, Brad?” said Holiday, shaking a cigarette out of the deck, nudging Fink on the elbow.

“I’m working it out in my head,” said West, who had a gray beard and long gray hair. He had grown the beard after Fink told him he looked like an old lady with all that hair.

“Shouldn’t you be up at NewYorka, or whatever that place is?” said Fink. He meant the touchy-feely coffeehouse over the District line, on the corner past Crisfield’s. “I see those dudes from your neighborhood up there, sittin with their double lattes, tapping away at their keyboards.”

“Wearing berets,” said Bonano, embellishing.

“Those guys aren’t writing anything,” said West. “They’re jerking off.”

“Not like you,” said Holiday.

They talked about the new kid Gibbs had picked up at quarterback. They talked about which one of the Desperate Housewives they’d like to fuck, the reasons they would kick the others out of bed, and the Chrysler 300. Bonano said he liked the lines, but it looked too “booferish” with aftermarket rims. In his mind, it was simply the best description of the wheels. Still, he looked around before he said it. At night the bar patrons here were mostly black, as were the employees. In the afternoons, it was often just them: four aging white alcoholics with no place else to go.

The car thing naturally led to a discussion of crime, and a turning of heads toward Holiday, who had the most firsthand knowledge of the subject.

“It’s getting better,” said Fink. “Murder rate’s half of what it was ten years ago.”

“ ’Cause they put most of the assholes in jail,” said Bonano.

“The violent criminals moved out to P.G. County, is all it is,” said Fink. “They got more homicides out there this year than they do in the District. And that don’t even begin to talk about the carjackings and rapes.”

“It’s no mystery,” said West. “White and black people with money are moving back into the city and pushing the poor blacks out to P.G. Shit, those areas between the Beltway and Southern Avenue? Capitol Heights, District Heights, Hillcrest Heights…”

“Heights,” said Bonano, shaking his head. “Like they got castles on the hills and shit. Jesus. And don’t even mention Suitland. A fucking armpit.”

“It’s Southeast all over again, ten years ago,” said Fink.

“It’s the culture,” said Bonano. “How the fuck you gonna change that?”

“Ward Nine,” said Fink. It had become either an affectionate or a pejorative term for P.G., depending on who was using it. It meant the county was no different from, and just as bad as, the eastern, crime-ridden, black-populated regions of D.C.

“What do you expect?” said West. “Poverty
is
violence.”

“
Really,
Hillary?” said Bonano.

“No one respects the law anymore,” said Holiday very quietly. He looked into his glass, rattled the cubes, and downed the rest of its contents. He picked up his cigarettes and cell from the bar and got off his stool.

“Where you goin?” said Fink.

“Work,” said Holiday. “I got an airport run.”

“Take it easy, Doc,” said Bonano.

“Gents,” said Holiday.

Holiday walked out of Leo’s into a blinding light. He wore a white dress shirt under a black suit. His hat was out in the car.