Murder Inside the Beltway (22 page)

“Someone you know?” Sue asked.

“No.”

“Hey, Jerry.”

“But this guy I know,” Rollins said, shaking hands with an attorney and his wife with whom he and Sue had been friends for years.

“Dad,” Samantha said, pulling him by the hand in the direction of the group onstage.

“You go ahead, sweetheart,” Rollins said, “but don’t go far.”

After a few minutes of banter, the Rollinses went to where Samantha had secured a spot from which she could see the performers. “Isn’t it cool?” she asked, beaming.

“Yes, it certainly is,” Rollins replied, wincing against the audio assault and wishing it had been jazz instead of folk and rock. He took comfort that there would be a jazz fest later that month at Wolf Trap; he’d already gotten tickets for it.

They’d tired by mid-afternoon and decided to call it a day. Rollins was pleased that they were relatively close to their parked car.

They’d almost reached it when they were approached by another set of friends.

“Give me the keys, Daddy,” Samantha said. “I’ll open the car.”

“Enjoy the music?” one of their friends asked.

“What?” Rollins said. “Oh, yes, very much, but you know—”

Samantha poked his arm.

“Oh, sure, honey, here,” he said, handing her the keys.

Their conversation with friends lasted only a few minutes more.

“Great seeing you,” Rollins said. The women pressed their cheeks to each other and the men shook hands. Rollins and Sue took steps toward the car.

“Samantha?” he called.

Sue turned. “Samantha?” she said.

“Where the hell—?”

Sue came to his side. “Where is she?”

“Look,” Rollins said, pointing to the ground near the rear of the car. The keys he’d given his daughter rested in a clump of grass.

“Samantha!” he shouted, and repeated it two more times.

Sue pushed through a crowd of tourists on the sidewalk, frantically looking for their daughter. Her voice carried over the din of the music and car horns and chattering people—“S-A-M-A-N-T-H-A!”

I
t had gone easier than expected.

They’d pulled the car, a nondescript tan four-door sedan, up next to the Rollinses wagon. The man and woman got out through the rear doors. The driver stayed behind the wheel, the engine running. The man and woman noticed that Samantha’s parents were preoccupied with another couple, saw the girl run to the car, keys outstretched, and observed that there was no one else at that moment in the immediate vicinity. It helped, too, that she came around to the rear of the station wagon and started to open the tailgate, keeping her out of the path of anyone who might stroll by. It took only an instant for the man to sweep the girl up, a hand over her mouth, and toss her into the backseat. The driver pulled away, easily, slowly, so as not to arouse attention. As far as they could tell, no one had even noticed the abduction. If someone had, they hadn’t started to make a fuss about it.

The man wearing the maroon sweatshirt and baseball cap had one hand on Samantha’s throat; the woman pressed a handkerchief into her mouth. She struggled.

“Cut it out, kid,” he growled.

“Calm down,” the woman told the child. “Take it easy. We don’t want to hurt you. Just stop kicking.”

“Watch your speed,” the maroon sweatshirt told the driver, a younger man, wearing a suit and tie on this leisurely Saturday. “Don’t get us stopped.”

They crossed the Potomac on the George Mason Memorial Bridge into Virginia, and continued on I-395, passing the Pentagon and proceeding to exit seven, where they turned onto Route 120, taking them in a northwesterly direction. At Ballston, they turned left on Wilson Boulevard and proceeded through Arlington until reaching Seven Corners, their final destination, a well-kept small one-story gray stucco house set far back from the road. A row of seven-feet-high hedges close to the house spanned the front, shielding it from street view.

By now, Samantha had stopped struggling, reduced to whimpering and occasional outbursts of full-fledged wailing. During the trip, the man had secured her hands and ankles with black duct tape and affixed a large, clean, powder-blue handkerchief across her eyes. They quickly carried her from the car to the house, entering through the front door and locking it behind them. The driver, who’d remained in the car, turned it around and drove away.

Once inside, the woman placed Samantha on a single bed in a rear bedroom. The only window was locked and nailed shut, and covered with a heavy red drape sealed at the edges with tape. The man in the sweatshirt went to the kitchen, where he turned on a police scanner and listened to a rapid succession of messages concerning the event:
“Child abduction reported on the Mall, Independence Avenue, all available units report to scene.”
He smiled. Nothing about the car or their identities. Smooth as silk.

He went to the bedroom where the woman, whom he now called Greta, had removed the gag from Samantha’s mouth and loosened the tape from her hands. The little girl sat up against the bed’s headboard and cried.

“Now, look,” said Greta, “I know you’re scared out of your wits, and I don’t blame you. I would be, too. But here’s the deal. You seem like a smart kid, so I’m sure that we’ll get along just fine—provided you do what I tell you to do.” She reached for a homemade ski mask sewn from a multi-colored piece of fabric and slipped it over her head. She indicated that the man, Paul, was to leave the room. With the mask over her face, Greta undid the handkerchief from Samantha’s eyes.

“That better?” Greta asked.

“Who are you?” Samantha managed.

“That’s not important. We don’t want to hurt you, and we won’t. You just have to stay here a little while until we make some business arrangements. Once that’s done, you’ll be back home with your family. How’s that sound?”

“I want to go home now.”

“Well, that can’t be, my dear. That just can’t be.”

Greta was a stocky, solidly built woman in her late thirties or early forties. Her voice didn’t match her frame. It was a deep, soothing, sexy voice of the sort heard on all-night big city radio stations from female disc jockeys cooing into microphones and spinning romantic music for the nocturnal lonely. The tone had its intended effect on Samantha. She visibly relaxed and brought her sobbing under control.

“Now,” Greta said happily, “how about some macaroni and cheese, and a soda? I bought some things especially for you that I think you’ll like. Most girls your age like mac and cheese and soda. Sound good?”

“Yes.”

“Good. Now, I’m going to lock the door behind me. There’s nothing in this room that can get you in trouble, and don’t even think of trying the window. It won’t open. And don’t start yelling or anything silly like that. There’re no other houses near us, not a soul to hear you. Understood, Samantha?”

She nodded.

“That a girl,” Greta said, patting Samantha’s hand. “Back in a jiffy.”

She went to the kitchen, where Paul had put on coffee. “Sweet kid,” she said.

The idyllic Saturday at D.C.’s famed Mall was now chaotic. A half-dozen marked police cruisers, lights flashing, radios blaring, had shut down Independence Avenue where the abduction had taken place. A legion of uniformed cops created a wide circle around Jerry and Sue Rollins, who stood by their Volvo, their faces testifying to the trauma they were experiencing. Other MPD vehicles continued to arrive, their plainclothes occupants spilling from them. Matt Jackson and Mary Hall also showed up. They’d been contacted at the museum on Matt’s cell phone and took off at a run.

“She’s gone,” Sue said to anyone and everyone close enough to hear. “My God, somebody has taken my baby!”

A tall, lean detective dressed in jeans, a tan safari jacket, and sneakers established himself as the person to whom Jerry and Sue Rollins should direct their comments. “I’m Detective Kloss,” he said. “You’re the parents?”

“Yes,” Jerry replied. “I’m Jerry Rollins. My wife, Sue.”

No handshakes were exchanged. The detective recognized Rollins as being part of the Robert Colgate campaign, which told him this would be more than a simple child abduction, if ever there could be such a thing.

“Give it to me fast, Mr. Rollins,” Kloss said. “From the top.”

Rollins tried to pace his retelling of events, but the words tumbled out as though every second counted, which it did.

“…afternoon on the Mall… getting ready to go home… stopped to talk with friends, gave the keys to Samantha… that’s our daughter… she’s seven… we left our friends and Samantha was gone.… Gone!… It all happened in a second.”

“Are you sure she didn’t run off somewhere, Mr. Rollins?” Kloss asked. “I have a kid that age and—”

“No, of course not,” Rollins snapped. “She wouldn’t do that.” He extended his hand in which he held the car keys. “These were over there,” he said, pointing to where he’d found them on the ground.

Kloss turned to the crowd, which was by now substantial—men, women, and children, teenagers and young couples, tourists with funny hats and T-shirts, some capturing the scene on their video and still cameras. “Anybody see anything?” he barked.

Some shouted comments based upon what they’d heard had happened. There were no eyewitnesses. A ruddy-faced man said loudly, “Let’s go looking for the kid. Come on, she’s got to be around here somewhere.”

Kloss took a description of Samantha and the clothes she was wearing, and instructed officers to isolate the area around the car with crime scene tape, and to post guards to keep it from being violated. He dispatched other officers to begin a search of the Mall, and called for backups, including the Park Police. He suggested to the Rollinses that they get in his car, away from the madness. Sue balked: “I have to find her,” she said, turning toward the crowd. But her husband grabbed her arm. “No, Sue,” he said. “Let’s do what he says.”

As they pushed through a knot of gawkers, Rollins heard a woman say, “People should keep their eyes on their kids.”

He spun around to say something, but didn’t.

When they reached Kloss’s unmarked vehicle, the detective spotted Jackson and Hall interviewing bystanders. He told the Rollinses to get in, and went to the two young detectives. “Hey, Matt, you heard?”

“Yeah. I got a call. We were here at the Mall and—”

“I can use you two,” Kloss said. “Stay close.”

When Jackson had been promoted to detective, he’d initially been assigned to Kloss’s squad. Kloss was a skilled hostage negotiator who’d worked a number of difficult cases, and had been lead on a kidnapping in Southwest only three months earlier that had turned out badly. A four-year-old boy had been abducted by a recently released sexual predator and murdered.

Jackson liked and respected Kloss, a soft-spoken man with a hint of a southern accent and a reasoned view of things, professional and personal. The senior detective had been high on Jackson, too, and welcomed having him assigned to his unit. But a month later, another of what seemed like a never-ending series of personnel shakeups occurred, and Jackson was transferred to Walter Hatcher’s group. Not a good day.

Kloss joined the Rollinses in the car. “Look,” he said, “I’ll have every available cop in the city scouring the Mall for your daughter. If she’s anywhere near, we’ll find her. Did either of you notice anyone suspicious when you were walking around, especially after you came out to get your car?”

“No,” Rollins said. “Well…”

“Yes, sir?”

“There was a man who was looking at me funny. I can’t be sure. It might have been my imagination.”

“Description?”

“He had a sweatshirt on, a red one. No, more maroon. And a baseball cap.”

“Team logo?”

“Not that I noticed.”

“What about a car?”

“Car?” Jerry and Sue said in unison.

“In the event whoever took her used a car.”

“Oh, my God,” Sue said.

“I didn’t see any car,” Jerry said. “Did you, Sue?”

“No.” She began to sob into her hands. Her husband put his arm around her and uttered words meant to comfort.

“We’ll get out an Amber Alert. Tough without a vehicle to ID, but someone might see her and respond. I want you two to drive back to your house. We need a picture of your daughter as soon as possible. Do you have one?”

“Of course.”

“Multiple pictures, if possible. Are you okay to drive?”

“Yes,” Jerry said.

“I want detectives with you.”

“Is that really necessary?” Rollins asked.

“I prefer it, sir.”

“Okay. Ready, Sue?”

“What will happen to her?” she asked.

“We’ll do everything we can to get her home safe,” Kloss said.

He looked through the open door to where Jackson and Hall stood, got out of the car, and approached them. “Matt, I’d like you to go with Mr. and Mrs. Rollins in their car. They’re driving home.”

“Right,” Matt said. “By the way, this is my partner, Detective Hall. Mary Hall.”

“Okay, Mary,” Kloss said. “Since you two work together, how about you go with Matt? Wouldn’t hurt to have a woman with the mother.” He noted her concerned expression.

“Problem?”

“No, sir. It’s just that we’re assigned to Walt Hatcher’s unit and—”

“Don’t worry about Hatcher,” Kloss said. “I’ll square it with him. Right now, I need help and I need it fast. When you get to their house, keep them calm, drapes closed. I’ll get a tech unit there to monitor the phones. See what you can get from any callers, people who might have it in for the family. You know who we’re dealing with?”

“It’s Jerry Rollins,” Jackson said.

“One in the same.”

“High profile,” Mary said.

“With plenty of people who might have it in for him. Come on, I’ll introduce you.”

The ride to the Rollins home in Foggy Bottom took only minutes. Jackson had offered to drive, but Rollins wouldn’t hear of it. Silence reigned throughout the short trip and until they’d entered the house. Mary immediately went to the front windows and drew down olive-green duvet shades. Sue asked why she’d done that. “Orders,” Mary said. “It’s better.” She gave the street a quick scan before drawing the final shade.