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GEORGETOWN, WASHINGTON, D.C.—Residence of Percy Weston
Having identified the two dead suits as failed bodyguards, detectives McGee and Bald Eagle walked up the pathway leading to the house, while scanning everything around them. They scoped out entry and escape points.
“It’s safe to assume they were shot with silenced weapons because dispatch didn’t receive a 911 call until a car driving by saw them dead. And by the time MPD arrived no killer came running out, and the bodies inside were already done up. Quite balefully, might I add,” Officer Herr said, throwing his eyes between the two detectives for a reaction. “As of this moment, the udge’s wife is at Georgetown University Hospital.”
“Alive?” Detective McGee asked, walking onto the huge front porch. She typically asked most of the questions.
“For now,” he replied, skirting around a low-level CSI staffer dusting the doorway for prints.
“What happened to the wife?” Detective Bald Eagle asked although she normally didn’t ask questions at the scene of the crime. A strange attribute for a seasoned detective.
Coincidentally, that was Judge Weston’s style during Supreme Court hearings. He hadn’t presented a single question to a defendant or plaintiff before the Court in over fifteen years. He didn’t want to choreograph anyone’s argument. That wasn’t his job. When before the highest court in the land it was imperative that a party’s position was full, thought out, and designed to procure a victory before entering the well of the court.
“The wife’s top jaw was broken off of her skull and her cheekbone was broken into her top jaw,” Officer Herr said, stopping on the porch.
“A dirty wound?” Detective McGee asked.
“You could take her top jaw and move it around separate from her skull. Only the skin, the mucous membranes of the inside of the mouth, and some muscle attachments were holding her top jaw to the rest of her face. I’ve assumed she was stomped in the mouth.”
“Some monster,” blurted Detective Bald Eagle.
Walking through the front door, Officer Herr waved his hand around the front door, then waved his hand around the home’s foyer with a view of the breathtaking great room, lower-level entertainment space, chestnut-paneled library, and charming paintings. The detective’s pumps clicked and clacked against the mahogany inlaid flooring.
“The artwork is beautiful,” Detective Bald Eagle said, marveling at a Andy Warhol print.
“You like art?” Officer Herr asked, frowning. “Let’s go upstairs for the real gallery pieces. The judge has been decorated with scars, gashes, broken bones. Colored in red. And bound in silver. Cuffs.” They started up the stairs, and he added, “There’s a third victim. Black male, mid-twenties. He’s wearing the judge’s bench robe. Nude underneath. Gavel wrapped tightly in one hand.”
“Guess we know who owns the Jag.”
“We do,” Officer Herr said. “Dorian Jackson. And here he is,” he added, pointing to a light-skinned man with close-cropped waves lying in the master bedroom doorway. “He appears to have been trying to escape.”
Upon stepping over Jackson and entering the bedroom, they observed a large amount of blood on a king-sized mattress beneath the judge. The judge had something wrapped around his neck, and it was apparent from the blood on his clothing and the bleeding from his head that he had sustained a lot of head trauma. The judge’s bedroom was a blend of several shades of brown and a splash of blood-red. Quite the autumn decor.
“This room is in complete disarray,” Detective Bald Eagle said, peering at the upturned furniture and bloodstained surfaces.
“Any drugs found?” Detective McGee asked.
“Nope, but I smell the weed like you,” the officer replied.
“I want officers to canvass the neighborhood,” Detective McGee said. “I’d love to yield an eyewitness. Was the wife able to talk?”
“You’re kidding, right? She was gravely injured. Her mouth was practically off her face. Attempts to ask her questions would have been fruitless.”
“This is purely overkill. A crime of passion,” Detective Bald Eagle said. “These two were bludgeoned and strangled. The wife hit almost like an afterthought.”
“Appropriate observation,” Officer Herr said. “I’m interested in determining what the relationship between the Weston’s and Jackson was. Friends or lovers?”
“I’m thinking swingers,” Detective Bald Eagles said. “This is DC and its that kinda town.” Her call phone rang and she answered it.
“Another great observation,” said Officer Herr. “We just have to figure out if the judge was nude and in cuffs before the killer arrived or did they force them to create this stage at gun or knife point?”
Detective Bald Eagle concluded her call and slipped her cell phone back into her pocket. Then, she gave her partner a conspicuous head nod. They convened in the hallway, Bald Eagle leaned in and whispered, “The New York Times just broke a story about Weston’s murder online.”
“Why the secrecy? I don’t like being whispered too,” Detective McGee asked with a raised eyebrow.
“It includes photos of the judge postmortem,” she said, before adding, “Maybe you need to have someone whispering to you. It’s been a while sweetie.”