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SOUTHEAST, WASHINGTON, D.C.
David Thurman’s feet felt heavy, pacing through the sparsely decorated and furnished efficiency in a dingy apartment complex on the Southeast side of D.C. He forced himself to watch the boring local news, switching between that and the trivial political cable news networks. He patiently waited for his doctoring of the judge’s features to be aired, preceded by a BREAKING NEWS banner. Despite his bravado and an OCD-driven desire for neatness and cleanliness, he put it aside to remain in character by using the derelict building as a command center. His rendezvous point. He did a good job assuring the building’s tenants—especially the drug dealing thugs that crowded the stoop—didn’t get a whiff of his purpose for invading the capital. Just the night before he had heard a hail of bullets, rumored to be a failed drug stash house robbery attempt. The fevered pitch of the bullets forced him to feel right at home. Despite the filthiness. Back on the battlefield.
Thurman suddenly felt dizzy. His heart rate quickened and his vision became cloudy.
“This is CNN breaking news.” He heard the news anchor announce before a snazzy photo of Chief Justice Percy Weston appeared in a small box at the top of the screen.
Watching an MPD spokesperson on the screen fielding questions from reporters allowed a nervous smile to spread across Thurman’s face. There was no way the assassin could avoid the ensuing investigation. The hunter would become the hunted, he thought. Finally my will, will be done. I just tipped the scales of justice on my terms, and there isn’t much to be done about it. Well, besides planning a funeral.
When the messenger was through expressing how the investigation was on-going, he exposed how the death of Percy opened an appointment to the bench by the next president. He finished the report with exciting news for Thurman—his intended effect. “This could be another deciding factor for voters. But, first, we have more on the campus shooting in New York City at Columbia U.”
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Twenty minutes later, Thurman decided to celebrate. To feed his addiction, he found himself on the stoop of his building, buying PCP from one of the dealers. That was the sole reason, he was able to ignore the poor condition of his apartment. That and it was the perfect cover. Every law enforcement agency no doubt looked for him to leave the DMV, but he stayed right under their noses. He was dressed in dirty coveralls and a sad fedora—an out of place white man in the ghetto. The neighbors allowed him there because he bought drugs from them. He was a handsome payday that they would protect. Sadly, neither of them had regard for the undercover agents that surveilled the area in an effort to take down local drug rings.