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MCGEE AND BALD EAGLE were headed to interview Thurman when they were accosted by James Copper from their Communications Office.
“I hate to pull you away from your investigation,” he’s said. “But I must. Orders from the OO.”
Detective McGee looked at a wall clock—eleven forty-five. Translation: several dozen reporters were crowded on the building’s steps, waiting to hound her for their noon news cycles. And they had orders from the chief to be transparent. This is bullshit, she thought, but let’s do this.
Walking to the elevators to feed the animals, James ran down a few things for her to cover along the way.
“Casey Greene for CNN wants to mic you up live for Wolf Blitzer tonight.”
“Not a chance,” Detective McGee said. “I adore Wolf—is that his birth name—he’s annoying with the repetitive questions just reworded, albeit smart. CNN has enough talking heads to break down what I plan to say. That’s how’s this goes. I talk. They spew interpretations. Which are typically off-base.”
“And conjecture,” said Bald Eagle.
“OK. And I’ve got the NBC World News ready to cover whatever you want.”
The elevator door opened, but before they boarded, Detective Bald Eagle huffed and said, “Look, James, we’re not doing anything extraordinary until we can say we charged someone. Got it?”
“Loudly,” he said, “but don’t whine when you want primetime coverage and they’re onto the next story.”
“That’s your job to get us coverage,” McGee reminded him.
“I’ll never whine, doll,” Bald Eagle said. “That’s for male detective’s. Make a note of it.”
When they reached the ground floor, James watched the women fixing their hair in the elevator mirrors. “Pardon, Gigi Hadid and Kylie Jenner? Can you two get out of the mirror? Geesh.” James was excellent at his job. The last thing he needed was them fixing their hair being the story and not the justice, especially, for a daily press briefing. They were expected to look worn not all glamourous.
The detectives were assaulted with shouts from reporters as soon as they hit the steps of the Daly Building.
“Marissa. We know you hate to talk, but what happened in Georgetown?”
“Detective McGee, over here!”
“Is Judge Weston’s wife still living?”
“What about the rumor—”
“Helloooo!” James sang loudly over the posse. His voice was a brave boom that demanded order. “Let the detective’s make a statement before you shout at them like you just heard the opening bell on Wall Street.”
Detective McGee ran down what they should have already known. Mentioned, in case they forgot, that the investigation was ongoing. Skipped that they had a suspect in custody and weapons at ballistics. After that, it was back to the scramming brawl.
The first one that James selected to talk was a Channel 4 reporter. She looked fresh out of journalism school, and asked, “Detective McGee, do you want to tell the man you’re looking for in the ATM surveillance anything?” Adding, “He may be watching you.”
So why the hell do you demand cops tell you investigative detail? she thought. Everyone on the steps became quiet, they were deeply interested in her reply.
The detective looked into a camera, and said, “Why don’t you come on in. We’re at three hundred Indiana Avenue. If you have no idea how to get here, I can have a comfy car with red and blue lights on top to pick you up.”
She didn’t make a splash, or say anything that would have triggered any killers to cut loose. They’d already decided to keep the fact that they had the ATM Bandit in custody under wraps.
“Blair, Fox News,” James said, pointing to another reporter, she was unable to get her questions off.
“Unnamed sources say you already have the man in custody in the surveillance video.”
That was, Martin Lowe, one of the crime correspondents for the Washington Post. He was looking down at an iPad as if he’d just gotten word form an unnamed source on it.
“Detective McGee, is there any truth to the rumor that you picked a guy up in a SUV this morning at the MLK monument? And can you tell us if this guy was determined to kill black people? Rumor has it, he killed Judge Weston for being a black conservative jurist.”
The detective wanted to commit a murder of her own. This, Martin Lowe, guy was definitely in bed with someone close to the investigation. That was his prerogative. His job. But she had directly warned everyone to keep the arrest of Thurman close to the chest. Obviously someone on the FIG conference call was going to be a problem, so even they’d be starved of certain information. To hell with the Oval Office and her chief.
She gave a wonderful reply, “No comment on that at present.” That line was tantamount to throwing a sardine to a dolphin. The whole squad pressed her for more.
“Hellooo!” James said with a stiff hand in the air. “I call on you and the detective responds. You learned that in Journalism one-o-one.”
It didn’t matter, though, Detective McGee gave more consecutive “no comments” before they pivoted, but the damage was done. If David Thurman had accomplices, they were warned. The first leak in the case, and the Babes of D.C. policing planned to be sure there wasn’t a steady drip.