| |
WASHINGTON, D.C.—FOUR Seasons Hotel
Through the night David Thurman had seduced two women: a twenty-four-hour diner waitress and a United States Capitol policewoman. Both of them enjoyed PCP with him and had been told a different lie explaining why he was in D.C. To the waitress, he was an Italian beautician with an appointment to do hair in the WH. To the officer, he was an economist in town for a summit to combat government wasteful spending. He didn’t add that offing the justice shaved a few dollars off of the budget even if temporarily. He had crafted unique memories for them both. They’d never forget his sexual prowess. He had choked the waitress to the point of her passing out as he brought himself to satisfaction. He gave the cop multiple orgasms, spelling the alphabet on her vagina with his tongue and a diamond necklace. They had sex all night until she had to leave for duty. She was unaware that she had left him with Betty Weston’s stolen necklace about her throat. What a gift from a one-night stand.
Leaving the Georgetown Four Seasons, Thurman hopped on his bicycle and rode along Wisconsin Avenue towards the Potomac River—just a tourist out and about taking in the morning sun. With the Weston inquiry in full-swing, he had work to do and the Columbia U shooting sharing the headlines was a problem. No one was to share or over-shadow his shine. He had dreamt of killing the campus shooter a second time. Time to ratchet up the stakes, he thought. Changing identities and ID was a priority. He needed a few subtle appearance alterations also. He had to take the bike for a swim in the Potomac and pick up his escape vehicle-a dated Nissan Maxima from the thirty-one hundred block of “P” Street, NW. Afterward, he was headed back to his ghetto hideout in all its stinking, steaming, roach-infested glory.
But first he had to make a call. He needed to retain a lawyer: One, Naim Butler.