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GEORGETOWN, WASHINGTON, D.C.—1583 Twenty-Eight Street, NW Residence of Percy Weston
After a sadistic killer sucker-punched Georgetown and moseyed away, leaving a vacuum of death, panic, and confusion, the lesson of the day seemed clear if you were in law enforcement. At first blush, the Columbia U story seemed like a big deal, but the murder of Chief Justice Percy Weston was hailed universally as a bombshell. Reporters from the East Coast to the West Coast were hyperventilating about the significance of each blockbuster. DC MPD Detective Suzanne McGee imagined TV new producers in their war rooms crafting a nickname for the crimes with a “-gate” suffix.
Detective McGee. Single, white, green-eyes, long blonde hair—accurately described her visible attributes. Wearing push-up bras to enhance her cleavage and sporting expensive high-heels to crime scenes encouraged people to view her as incompetent. All beauty and no brains. They’d be ignoring her fifteen-years in law enforcement, five-years starring as the lead TV detective in the Emmy award-winning series, The Westwood Beat, and undoubtedly wrong. By rotation, McGee assumed the role of lead detective in the investigation of the dead judge.
“Look at this shit,” Detective McGee said to her partner, pulling up to Judge Weston’s street in their government-issued Chevrolet Impala. “All hands on deck.”
Police, ambulances, CSI, coroner, and Federal conveyances were stationed strategically, blocking traffic from entering or exiting Twenty-eighth Street, NW without permission.
“They’re not happy to see the Babes of DC policing show up,” Detective Bald Eagle said, looking at two MPD officers whispering and pointing at the Impala.
Detective Marissa Bald Eagle. Champion dancer—ballroom and tap—war hero, suicidal. Detective Bald Eagle took up dangerous demonstrations against sanity having tried skydiving, race car driving and had someone shoot at an apple on her head. While chasing death she came across success as a sharpshooter in the US Army. Raised on the Lakota reservation in South Dakota, she left to join the military on a quest to defend the United States, ultimately defending Native Americans. When not solving crimes she was a glam-mom to a nine-year-old daughter, who lived with her ex-husband and his new wife.
“Sucks to be them,” Detective McGee said, shutting down the car. She pulled down the visor, looked in the mirror, and smiled. She touched up her pink lipstick, tucked auburn hair behind her ear, and then popped an Altoid into her pouty mouth.
Detective Bald Eagle was leering at the four-bedroom Tudor—its manicured, expansive lawn decorated with two dead men in black suits. CSI staff patrolled the grounds looking for clues and forensics to lead to the killer or killers. In the distance was the dome of a gazebo in the back of the house. The opened garage door revealed matching Mercedes S-class sedans. Outside of the garage in a short driveway was a third car, a blue Jaguar XFS.
“And action,” Detective McGee said, opening her car door. She stepped out of the car, threw on gaudy Chanel sunglasses, and grabbed a three-by-five denim covered Versace notepad. Walking towards the crime scene, her partner in tow, she used an expensive pen to jot a question in her notepad: Whose car is in the driveway?
Approaching the crime scene tape, it was raised and veteran MPD Officer John Herr said, “Now that the stars have arrived, we can truly get this show on the road.”
“Can it Herr,” Detective Bald Eagle said fierily, furrowing a perfectly arched eyebrow. “Getting to business, I would assume there’s a rather sophisticated video surveillance system, wouldn’t you?
“There is,” Officer Herr said, accepting his admonition. “And already sent in a chain-of-custody pouch to HQ.” He nodded, looking for their approval. He didn’t get it. “Come on, let me show you what we’ve got.”