“Who did the shooting?”
The person doing the asking was a tall, handsome black man with a smooth, shaved head and well-groomed goatee. He was Detective Neil Moore. Unlike the MPD officers roaming the clinic in police blues, Detective Moore wore dark slacks and a sharp-looking tweed blazer over a white shirt and red tie.
“I did, sir,” Josh said, his deference to authority kicking in like a reflex. “It was self-defense. My father was a witness. This guy was going to shoot me.”
Josh did not sound or act distraught. He never talked much about his experiences overseas in the military, but his calm and composed demeanor suggested this was not the first person to die by his hand. Lee thought about his own close brush with death, having a vague memory of Karen telling him how often people miss in close-quarters combat. He felt grateful she’d been proven right.
“Where’s the weapon?” Moore asked.
“SIG Sauer. Bagged and tagged already,” a nearby MPD police officer announced.
“It’s my mother’s gun,” Josh said.
The detective responded with a nod. Lee studied the man’s dark eyes, searching for any hint of aggression, seeing none.
Blood scented the air all the way to the waiting room, where Lee and Josh gave Detective Moore their statements. The clinic had become a beehive of activity, with cops everywhere and caution tape strewn about like a haphazard cobweb. Outside, strobes from a fleet of vehicles lit the sky like a display of fireworks. From down the hall, the sound of turning wheels drew Lee’s attention to the medical examiner transporting a body zipped up in black plastic.
The detective reached out a hand, bringing the gurney to a stop.
“Who’s that?” Moore asked in a rich baritone voice.
“The doc,” said a young medical examiner in a white disposable body suit. Behind the ME stood an older gentleman dressed in a light blue jacket with the word CORONER emblazoned on the back. Lee’s heart sank at the sight. His throat closed, his eyes watering with grief.
“He’s not the doc,” Lee said, spitting out the words with ragged breath. “His name is Paul Tresell. And he was my partner and my friend.”
Detective Moore gripped Lee’s arm gently and with a nod, sent the coroner on his way.
“I’m truly sorry for your loss, Dr. Blackwood,” the detective said, locking eyes with Lee. His sincerity was enough to hold back Lee’s dark anger.
“Thank you,” Lee said, a measure of calm returning. He took a seat next to Josh on one of the waiting room chairs.
Detective Moore pulled a chair over for himself, maneuvering it so he faced the father and son. He sat. “Do you keep narcotics here?” Moore asked Lee.
“Why are you asking?”
“The man your son shot is named Willie Caine. He’s a doper, sometimes dealer, and let’s just say he’s earned a lot of frequent flyer miles with Police Air.”
“You think he broke in here to get drugs?”
“Any other reason he’d kill your partner and ambush you?”
Lee was thinking there were plenty of reasons. He had no doubt Paul’s murder was connected to the repairman. But how?
Lee locked eyes with Detective Moore. “Can I ask you something?” he said.
“Anything,” answered Moore.
“Does Willie Caine have a tattoo of a skull wearing a pointed helmet on his body?”
The detective gave a shrug. “Why do you ask?”
Lee explained his encounter with the repairman at the MDC.
“Guess we can have a look,” Moore said. “Willie won’t mind.”
Lee and Josh followed Detective Moore back into Paul’s office, the smell of blood more pungent with each step. When they entered, Lee’s breath caught. Paul was gone, but his echo remained in the form of a gruesome stain on the carpeting.
Lee’s eyes turned down in reverence and memory. For Paul’s sake, he vowed that sadness and anger would not cloud his mission. He would get answers. Paul would have justice.
The office was crowded with police and forensic specialists, all busily gathering evidence and processing the crime scene. On the floor, exactly where Lee had tossed him, lay Willie Caine. His gray and lifeless eyes stared vacantly at the ceiling, and his open mouth revealed a set of crooked, yellow teeth. A police photographer, encased inside a white plastic suit, took photographs with a digital camera.
Detective Moore knelt next to the body. With a gloved hand, he pushed up the sleeve of Willie’s sweatshirt, exposing an array of tattoos decorating the forearm. One of them, framed by the tail of a winged dragon, was a skull head wearing a spiked helmet.
“That looks familiar to you?”
Lee nodded, then turned his head away.
“That tattoo could be gang-related,” Moore said. “I’m not familiar with it. But there is a lot of narcotic activity in these gangs.”
Lee believed this was about drugs—just not the kind sold on the streets.
“We have specialists who know a lot more about gangland than I do,” Moore added. “I’ll make sure to include this in my report.”
“What about Josh?” Lee asked.
It was inconceivable to think that Josh could be in any trouble for saving his life.
“There’s evidence to suggest you and Josh believed your lives were in imminent danger,” Moore said, nodding toward Willie’s sprawled-out body. “By law, you can use the amount of force which you reasonably believe is necessary to protect yourself.”
“Meaning?” Lee asked.
“Meaning, don’t use a gun when the other guy has a golf club.”
“The other guy had a gun,” Josh said.
“In D.C. you don’t have a right to stand and kill, but there’s no duty to retreat either,” Moore explained. “We’ve got a healthy middle ground there. My sergeant and lieutenant will be down here soon enough. We’ll have a sit-down. We’ll talk it out.”
“We’ll have an attorney present,” Lee said.
“It’s your right,” Moore said.
Lee did not know how it would play out, but he did not get the sense that Josh would leave in handcuffs.
Lee noticed one of the forensic specialists remove a cell phone from the back pocket of Willie’s pants and slip it into an evidence bag. It was a Galaxy phone, the same kind Paul owned. Several thoughts came to Lee all at once. What if Paul had called and left those voice mail messages before Willie ambushed him? What if Willie forced Paul to text Lee? Had Paul sent clues with the misspelling and the use of the word,”office”? Aside from imagining Paul’s visceral terror, another thought struck Lee. What had Paul found out?
“Detective Moore,” Lee said. “I would like to look at my partner’s computer before you take it away.”
Moore shook his head. “It’s evidence. I’m afraid that can’t be allowed,” he said.
“I understand,” said Lee. “Would you mind if I made a phone call?”
“Be my guest.”
Lee stepped into the hallway and returned moments later, handing his phone to Detective Moore.
“It’s for you,” Lee said.
Moore put the phone to his ear. “This is Detective Moore. Yes, yes of course … I’ll hold.” Moore appeared thunderstruck, his bravado retreating like the tide. He pulled the phone away and must have seen the number on the display come up as WHITE HOUSE because his eyes went wide. A few moments later those eyes grew even wider.
“Um, Mr. President? For real? Um—sir, yes, Mr. President, it’s an honor. Yes—yes, of course. Of course, Mr. President … we’ll have oversight, but yes, I’ll make that happen. I understand, sir. Yes, sir. Thank you, Mr. President.”
Moore handed Lee back his phone in a daze.
“The computer is all yours, Dr. Blackwood,” he said.