Fatal Twist Page 3
“I don’t think you have a right to accuse me of anything, Mr. Washington. You got proof? No, you don’t. As to your daughter, she was a whore, she tempted my son—”
“She was not a whore!” Still restrained, Washington rose and took an awkward, impotent step toward Stoneham before Diemond reached out and shoved Washington backwards. He stumbled, struck the seat, and landed hard on the ground.
Diemond grabbed Washington’s arm and yanked him back into the chair. “Don’t do that again.”
Croft took a step forward. “Cam, listen to me. I don’t think—”
“Shut up, Ray. And stay out of the way.”
Washington canted his head up to Stoneham. His breathing was rapid, his voice tense. “Michelle was in college. She was a good person. She was gonna be an accountant.”
“An accountant.” Stoneham laughed pitifully. “She was scum, just like you.” He turned to Diemond and nodded.
Diemond refastened the rope and pulled it taut. Washington struggled, but his attempts were futile. As soon as Diemond leveraged his prisoner into the partially erect position, all he could do was hold himself up to ease the pain in his shoulders. But he wouldn’t be able to keep it up for long.
“You did something very wrong, LeRoy,” Diemond said. “And now you have to face a jury of your peers.” He turned to the two men behind him. “And we say you’re guilty.” The detective pulled a compact Glock from his ankle and showed it to Washington, as if explaining what was going to happen.
“Hold it,” Croft said. “Let’s just take him in, we might have enough for attempted murder. Give us a chance to make a case—”
“That’s not what I’m paying for, Detective,” Stoneham said. “I’ve looked into this man’s background. He’s not one to give up. While he’s still alive, my son’s not safe. And that’s just not acceptable.” He turned to Diemond and indicated Washington with a tip of his head. “Do it.”
Diemond stepped forward and brought his handgun up, in line with Washington’s face.
“Any last words?” Stoneham asked.
Washington’s breathing was rapid, his face perspiration slick. “I did it for Michelle. For my little girl.”
Diemond pulled the trigger.
THE GLOCK FIRED AND BUCKED HARD. Washington opened his eyes. He was still alive. His nervous laugh degraded into a howling cry.
“What the—?” Diemond looked at his gun, then pointed and fired again. Again, it kicked ceilingward and again, Washington lived on.
“You’ve got another gun,” Stoneham said, his voice tense. “Use it. Quickly.”
“I can’t— It’s traceable to—”
Before Diemond could finish explaining that the barrel riflings of his service pistol could be on file with Metro PD, loud footsteps bounded down the stairwell.
Toting MP-5 submachine guns, officers clad in SWAT gear burst into the basement, screaming for everyone to get onto the ground. The lead officer, “Will Gerardo” boldly stitched over his left breast, grabbed a reluctant Harrison Stoneham and forced him to the floor.
He swiveled toward Diemond, who was down on his knees, hands raised. His speech was rapid: “I’m Detective Cameron Diemond, I’m—”
“I know who you are,” Gerardo said. “Interlock your fingers behind your head.”
As two of the officers sliced the rope suspending Washington from the pipe, Diemond said, “We got a tip LeRoy Washington was tied up in the basement. My partner and I had Harrison Stoneham in our car, so we came right over and found—”
“Save it,” Gerardo said. “You have the right to remain silent. I suggest you use it.” Gerardo moved over to Croft, helped him to his feet, and shook his hand. “Thanks, Detective. Fine work.”
Diemond’s eyes were ablaze as a SWAT officer ratcheted his handcuffs tight. “How could you do this?”
“Blanks,” Croft said. He held up a small electronic device. “And a wire.”
“You know what I mean. How could you do this to me? I thought you were my partner. But you’re a goddamn rat.”
“This was wrong, Cam. I couldn’t let it go down. I told the lieutenant Stoneham was paying—”
“Do you know who I am?” Stoneham said as he was being led away. “You can’t prove any of that bullshit!”
“Get him out of here,” Gerardo said. “Diemond too. Asshole’s a disgrace to the badge.”
ONCE THE BASEMENT WAS CLEARED, Gerardo called in forensics to document the scene. Croft stood there, lost in thought.
“You did good,” Gerardo said.
“It was close. I mean, if Cam hadn’t thrown that rock, Washington might’ve hit his target. We weren’t prepared for that.”
Gerardo smiled slyly. “Who says we weren’t? Losing Milo Stoneham would’ve been justice served, kinda like Washington said. Sometimes you just gotta let the shit take care of itself.” He winked. “You know, it’s gonna be tough for a while. Cops are gonna look at you like you’re poison.”
Croft nodded slowly. “I didn’t see much of a choice.”
Gerardo clamped a hand on his shoulder. “There are always choices, son. In this case, you made the right one. Don’t you ever forget it.”
CROFT SHOOK GERARDO’S HAND, then walked to his car and checked in on Washington, who was handcuffed in the unmarked’s rear seat. Crying—no, weeping.
“I wanna kill the fucker,” he screamed. “Him and his son— Let me outta here! I gots to finish the job!”
“I didn’t hear any of that, LeRoy. I got a kid, I understand where you’re coming from, but get yourself under control. Things suck, I get it. But they are what they are. You got the right to keep your mouth shut. Use it. Other cops, they may not see things like I do.”
As Croft slammed the door, a call came over his radio.
Unknown threat—woman in distress, nearby apartment building. “You and Detective Diemond are the closest unit available,” dispatch said. “Respond. Over.”
Croft keyed his two-way. “Diemond is…indisposed. I’ll take the call.” Dispatch provided the address—which Croft confirmed twice. He swiveled toward the SWAT vehicle and shouted, “Lieutenant!”
Gerardo, helping load his team’s gear into the van, stuck his head around the rear door. “Yeah?”
“I need backup on a 10-67. Can you take a ride?”
Gerardo said something to one of his team members, then joined Croft at his car. Seconds later they sped away, Washington getting jostled around with his hands cuffed behind him.
Having composed himself, Washington’s bloodshot eyes were wide with fear as he righted his torso and glanced around. “What’s goin’ on? Where we goin’?”
“One-thousand G Street,” Croft said. “Recognize the address?”
“Yeah, right near Sarducci’s.”
“Indeed it is,” Croft said as he maneuvered the Ford through a refuse-littered alley.
“What’ve we got?” Gerardo asked.
Croft briefed him with the scant information he had been provided as he turned onto Connecticut, then negotiated rain-filled potholes, pedestrians, and slower moving vehicles. Moments later, he screeched to a halt at the curb in front of Sarducci’s, where contractors were measuring to install a new storefront window.
“What about me?” Washington asked.
“No offense,” Gerardo said, “but you can’t stay in the car. No cage. So you’re with us.” Gerardo popped open the rear door and reached inside. “Let’s go. And no bullshit. You make trouble for us, we’ll make more trouble for you.”
HANDGUNS AT THE READY, Vail and Bledsoe ran up the stairs and burst through the fire door into the building’s second floor corridor. Vail’s eyes locked on the gaze of a man fifteen feet away dressed in SWAT garb who was accompanied by two plainclothes individuals.
The officer brought up a tactical pistol and drew down on her. “Drop your weapon! Get down on the ground, both of you!”
“Karen Vail—FBI,” Vail said, pointing her Glock at the ceiling with one hand
and slowly brushing her jacket aside with the other to reveal the brass badge fastened to her belt.
The officer relaxed his shoulders— slightly— and said, “Gerardo, SWAT. Toss your creds over here.”
Vail and Bledsoe did as instructed, then Gerardo lowered his handgun. He and his two colleagues jogged over and they quickly introduced one another. Washington got a look from Vail, who made no attempt to hide her glance behind his back at the handcuffs.
But before she could inquire why Washington was in restraints—and why he was there to begin with—Vail heard something down the corridor. “You hear that?” She started forward, headed in the direction of where she thought the noise had emanated. “Sounded like a woman crying.”
“Got a 9-1-1 from a woman in distress,” Croft said as they moved down the hallway. “Wireless carrier could only tell us she was in this building. We just started a search.”
Another whimper. “There!” Vail said, running toward an apartment twenty feet away. She banged a fist on the door. “Police—open up!” More plaintive cries. Hell with this—no time for rules and procedure. Vail stepped back and brought her leg up—
“No, wait,” Washington said, knocking her aside with a stiff shoulder. “I got it.” He leaned right and uncoiled his left leg with a thunderous kick that splintered the doorframe.
“Police! FBI!” Bledsoe and Vail called as they burst in.
They fanned out and began clearing rooms on both sides of the hallway as Vail took the risky move of heading directly toward the deepest reaches of the apartment, looking for the woman. An offender wouldn’t wait around—especially if she called the police—
Washington followed a few steps behind Vail as she walked into the bedroom.
“Sweet Jesus,” he mumbled, recoiling at the sight before them: a young blonde woman on her back, naked, tied spread-eagle to the bedposts with duct tape.
Her right leg was free, and lying beside it on the floor was the cellphone she’d presumably used to call 9-1-1. Vail climbed atop the bed and draped a crumpled comforter across her.
The woman was whimpering, eyes bloodshot and bruised-swollen, mouth stuffed wide with athletic socks. As Vail extracted them, she cried louder, her arms and legs stiffening in pain.
“All clear,” Bledsoe said, entering the room. Gerardo and Croft followed.
“How is she?” Gerardo asked, holstering his weapon.
Vail motioned to the bindings. “Cut her free. And call an ambulance, I think she’s in shock.”
The lieutenant unfurled his tactical knife and handed it to Bledsoe. Gerardo keyed his radio and walked into the hallway as Bledsoe sliced through the tape.
Vail brought the woman close and cradled her head against her chest. “It’s okay, it’s all right. You’re safe now.”
“Uh, Detective—” Washington said.
Croft held up a hand. “Not now, LeRoy.”
“No, man, you gots to see this.”
Bledsoe shoved the knife into its sheath, then joined Washington across the room on the other side of the bed, at the doorway to the walk-in closet. Lying prone, atop a large maroon carpet stain, was a Caucasian male.
Bledsoe stooped over and got a look at the man’s face. “Holy shit. Karen, I think we found Charles Henry Reed.”
The woman began whimpering again and pushed away from Vail, settling against the headboard, legs drawn to her chest.
Vail climbed off the bed and joined Croft and Bledsoe beside the prone body. She grabbed the man’s shoulder and, with Bledsoe’s assistance, rolled him onto his back. A red and blue patch on the man’s polo shirt read, Reliant Couriers. “Well, what do you know? You’re right. Charles Henry Reed.”
“GSW, chest,” Bledsoe said. “Looks like a large caliber round.”
“Now that’s a damn shame.” Vail stood up and glanced around the room. Her gaze settled on the window fifteen feet behind Washington, beyond which stood a seven-story office building.
Croft cleared his throat. “Now I realize this places you in a tough spot, LeRoy, being that you’d be compromising your defense, so let’s talk hypothetically. Okay?”
Washington shifted his feet, clearly knowing where this was headed and not a bit comfortable with it.
“Medics en route,” Gerardo said as he re-entered the bedroom. He looked from Vail to Washington to Croft, then asked, “What’s going on?”
“That’s what I’d like to know,” Vail said.
“I’ll let LeRoy tell you.” Croft turned to Washington and hiked his eyebrows.
Washington cleared his throat. “There’s a dead guy in this here closet. And he was…well, seems like he was killed by a large caliber round. By the looks of it, a .762. Fired through the hole in that window behind you.”
Vail waited a long moment, but Washington was busy fidgeting and didn’t offer any further explanation. “Croft, me and Bledsoe have a dead killer on the floor here—and a shitload of reports to write. Who fired the freaking rifle that put that gaping hole in my suspect’s chest?”
Croft turned back to Washington. “Hypothetically now, LeRoy. You think it’s possible that when we find the rifle that was used to take a shot at Milo Stoneham, that it’ll be a .762 caliber job?”
Washington’s Adams apple rose in his throat. “Yes, sir. I think that’s highly likely. Hypothetically.”
STANDING CURBSIDE WITH PARAMEDICS as they tended to Charles Henry Reed’s latest—and final—victim, Vail said, “Let me get this straight, Croft. Your guy here, Washington, he was on that roof across the street looking to take out Milo Stoneham, the guy who raped and killed his daughter. But when your partner—who was on the take from Stoneham’s rich father—broke the storefront, Washington’s shot went high and wide, killing the offender we’ve been tracking for two years—the Park Rapist.”
“Sounds about right,” Croft said.
Vail turned to Bledsoe, who shook his head and said, “Do this job long enough and you see all sorts of shit.”
Yeah. Like Croft said, that sounds about right. Vail walked over to the rear door of Croft’s vehicle, where LeRoy Washington was seated. She leaned a forearm on the roof and said, “Sorry for what happened to your daughter. I know it won’t help a whole lot but your actions killed another asshole, one who’d raped ten young women. He murdered one of ’em a couple weeks ago. He isn’t gonna be doing that stuff anymore. Thanks to you.”
Washington contorted his lips. “Tell it to the judge when he’s about to lock me up.”
“I will,” Vail said. “I’ll talk with the DA. Need be, I’ll testify at your trial.”
Washington’s eyes narrowed. “You’d do that for me?”
“I study human behavior for a living, LeRoy. I know the minds of killers. Psychopaths. Arsonists. Bombers. Terrorists. I know what drove you to do what you were going to do. And I’m pretty sure I know what’s in your heart. You’re not a killer. You made a huge error in judgment, and you’re gonna have to pay for the consequences of those actions. But I’m gonna do what I can to lessen the blow. You won’t ever try such a thing again. That’s not who you are.”
Washington looked away and shouldered his moist eyes. He turned back and said, “Thank you. That’s about the nicest dang thing anyone’s ever done for me.”
“One thing. I want you to promise me that you’ll repay the favor by keeping your nose clean in prison. It won’t be easy. Prison’s a bad freakin’ place, LeRoy. But you make good decisions, there’s a future for you when you get out. Can you make me that promise?”
Washington looked at her, an unwavering, penetrating gaze. “Yes, ma’am. I can.”
Vail shut the door and turned. Bledsoe was there. “Were you eavesdropping on my conversation?”
They turned and started walking back toward the apartment building. Bledsoe said, “You see yourself in LeRoy Washington. Don’t you?”
“Yeah. I’m a tall black dude who takes high-powered rifles onto roofs to assassinate offenders who scam the system.”
Yeah, I know what you’re talking about. When a loved one’s life was in danger, Vail had gone after those responsible—a powerful gang—and could’ve gotten herself killed. She crossed lines, blew procedure and broke the law, and if given the opportunity, quite possibly would’ve killed those responsible. It was a very thin line that she had toed. And it was something she had struggled with ever since. Once seeing your darkest thoughts, a person was never the same. So yeah, Bledsoe, I know what you’re talking about.
“Strange how things worked out, huh?”
They turned in unison and saw Lieutenant Gerardo standing behind them.
“Think about it. If Diemond wasn’t crooked, if he hadn’t tried to save Stoneham by throwing the rock through that window at exactly that moment, and if Washington’s shot hadn’t gone off target…that woman might’ve been killed by Charles Henry Reed. And you may’ve never caught him.”
“Talk about a twist of fate,” Bledsoe said.
“I don’t know about that.” Vail looked up at the building, at the window of the woman’s apartment, at the jagged hole where the errant round found its target. “I’d say it’s more like a fatal twist.”
1
January 29, 1955
8:39 PM
37 W. Rosedale Avenue
Northfield, New Jersey
Henry sat deathly still in the corner watching the life drain from his mother’s body, knees drawn tight against his chest, arms wrapped around his shins. He stared at the blood seeping from her pulpy head wounds, poking forth from between strands of matted hair.
The seven year old boy had told the policeman in so many words about the man in the black knit mask who came up from behind and struck his mother several times, then disappeared out the back door. Afterwards, Henry had sat frozen, unable to move, unable to comfort her in her last seconds before her body stilled, her eyes rapt in death.
A bottle of maple syrup, the lone weapon his mother had grabbed to fight off her attacker, lay shattered on the floor, oozing across the kitchen linoleum. In halting sentences, with shock-laden tear-filled eyes, Henry described how the masked man had knocked it from her hand before she could raise it.