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WASHINGTON, D.C.—DUPONT Circle
The press was going mad when Detective McGee arrived in swanky DuPont Circle. Good for them. DuPont Circle is a traffic circle, park, neighborhood, and historic district in the Northwest quadrant of the city. The area was named for Rear Admiral Samuel Francis DuPont. The neighborhood declined after World War II and vastly during the 1968 riots. Fueled by urban pioneers the area enjoyed a resurgence during 1970s, taking on a bohemian feel and becoming popular among the gay and lesbian community. Lambda Rising, D.C.’s first gay bookstore opened there in 1974 and gained notoriety in 1975 when the store ran the world’s first gay-oriented television commercial. Tons of cameras fought for a shot of Jacob and Lisa-Marie Elberg’s glass and marble house, either out front behind the barrier set up by Sergeant Pisano, or around the corner on the side where the policeman had camped out to keep reporters out because they undoubtedly would attempt to enter.
She looked at the other homes on the block as she pulled up, and saw neighbors watch the live show. She parked, checked in with crime-scene attendance, and immediately ordered a canvassing detail to start interviewing the looky-loos on the set. Detective Bald Eagle was by her side quietly taking visual photos of the area. She was good at that.
Entering the home, they started in the den, where the Elberg’s had been playing scrabble—the board was still between them, unmolested. Their TV—wall mounted and above a chimney—was on NBC Channel 4 with a live angle outside the home.
“They’re out of line,” Sergeant Pisano said. “The press loves to cry about peoples’ privacy but they always violate the rights of victims.”
The den hadn’t been disturbed, except for the blood littered here, there, and everywhere. Sergeant Pisano had relayed that he surmised the killer had the couple at gunpoint as soon as he greeted them. Senator Elberg’s hands were handcuffed. His hands were left positioned as if in prayer.
Senator Elberg was casually perched in his recliner. In death, he looked most excellent. The single slash crossing his mouth looked pristine, with a purple-ish ring surrounding it. The Joker, perhaps? Detective Bald Eagle put her face close to the wound.
“It’s safe to say he’ll no longer be shouting on the Senate floor anymore,” Detective McGee said, pointing at the smile extension. “Cut in the mouth and stabbed in the right parietal.” She pointed at a set of French doors, leading to the patio. “And that’s where our killer came on in, I’d bet.”
The brick patio had a stone fireplace and narrow walkway leading to a yard and a two car garage. Four trees with apples and oranges growing from branches lit-up the space.
Beyond that, the side of the neighbor’s three-story Victorian cast an eerie shadow over the detective’s when they stepped onto the patio.
“Were the neighbors home?” Detective Bald Eagle asked.
“They were. The Donahue’s. Husband and wife didn’t see a thing and didn’t hear any shots. They...rather the husband, noticed the dead security detail on the front porch when he let their collie out to poop. Seems your guy walked right up to the front door,” Sergeant Pisano said, poking a hole in the idea that the killer entered through the patio.
“Assuming this is our guy,” Detective McGee said.
“It’s the guy,” her partner replied.
“Pardon me, Detective?” A MPD officer was suddenly behind them. He held up gloved hands. “Two things, Detectives, Sarge. Neighbors say a beat up Expedition has been parked on the block. One person distinctly recalls the SUV having New York Plates. Another family across the street noticed it, took pictures of it and the driver, and called police to have it looked into. I’ve asked them to gather all of their surveillance for us to view.”
This wasn’t the kind of purlieu where beat-up trucks were en vogue, Detective Bald Eagle made a note to follow-up, but she had just captured, David Thurman, in an Expedition with New York plates. Coincidence? Or, no?
“And the other thing?”
“The fantastic FBI has arrived.”
“Have them send their Emergency Response Team around the driveway,” Sergeant Pisano said.
“Oh, it’s not ERT, sir. It’s an agent. He asked for Detective McGee.”
Leering back inside, she watched a white guy with shoulder-length brown hair and aviator shades masking his eyes in a standard FBI polo shirt. He wore latex gloves, peering at the hole in Senator Elberg’s head.
“Back up,” Detective McGee called through the patio door. “Why the hell are you here?”
To be nice, he ignored her.
“Did he give a name?”
“Morgan, ma’am.”
“Hey, asshole,” she shouted this time and then started inside.
“Don’t touch a damn thing in there.”
When she reached the den, Morgan stood straight up and looked deep into her eyes. Nice piece of ass, Morgan thought and smiled extending his hand.
“Alexander Morgan. Washington field office. Pleasure is all mine.”
Detective McGee shook the man’s hand respectfully, but it was an electrifying moment, like the NFL game kick off. And we’re underway.
“What are you doing here.” Detective Bald Eagle wanted to know.
“Getting a head start on the investigation,” Morgan told her, smiling.
“You’re shitten me. You don’t have any reason to be concerned with this body.”
He looked at her and grinned. “I have specific POTUS orders to be here.” Knowing that little factoid, he did exactly what the MPD wouldn’t expect. He gave them his back and continued to analyze the senator. The corpse.
Clean shot and a cleaner—more precise—slit throat. A very clean getaway. Complete expert action. So effective. So deadly. He found the killer to be a worthy adversary.
Into a recorder, he said, “Ballistics results ASAP. But this looks like a 9mm. I bet this guy had military training. The throat precisely opened giving it away. Maybe military medical training. We’re looking for a rogue trader. Straight Benedict Arnold.”
“You must have had access to my initial report?” Detective McGee asked.
“Wow, you question my competence and experience without knowing a thing about me. Smart.” He stood up, and said, “See, that’s why I’m here.”
“Look, you’re not needed. You’re voicing what we know. Just an arrogant Bureau ass with an inflated perception of entitlement,” Detective Bald Eagle said.
“Cute,” Morgan said. “I don’t care about credit for this. The U.S. attorney, Shai Brown, will get all of the accolades for knocking this out of the park, right?”
“Man, we don’t have time for your federal gloating.” That was Sergeant Pisano.
Finally, the man before him opened his mouth. Time to work. The FBI Agent stepped into Sergeant Pisano’s face. Close. “You got the D.C. game fucked up,” FBI Agent Morgan said, letting the politeness seep out of his introduction. Closer. He had been a nice, little federal agent, allowing them to pop verbal shots at him. Now it was his turn. Too close for comfort. “See this murder and the last four over in Georgetown occurred in my district, making it a federal crime, which I happen to investigate and bring perpetrators to justice. Be nice or I can have this home taken over as my very own man-made island, and you’ll immediately be deported.