The Simple Truth (17 page)

One nervous-looking clerk raised his hand.
“Are they sure it was a robbery? It didn’t have to do with his working here?”

Sara looked over at him angrily. Not the question you really wanted to hear five seconds after learning someone you worked with, cared about, was dead. But then she supposed violent death did that to people: made them instinctively fear for their own lives.

Dellasandro put up his big calming hands.
“We have heard nothing that would make us believe that his death had anything whatsoever to do with the Court. However, out of an abundance of caution, we are increasing security around here, and should anyone notice anything suspicious or out of the ordinary, please contact either myself or Mr. Klaus. We’ll make available to you any future details about this situation at the appropriate time.”
He looked over at Ramsey, who had his head bowed in his hands and was making no move to get up. Dellasandro stood there awkwardly until Elizabeth Knight rose.

“I know this has been a terrible shock to all of us. Michael was one of the most popular people ever to work here. His loss touches us all, especially those who had become close to him.”
She paused and looked at Sara for a moment.
“If any of you wishes to talk about anything, please feel free to do so with your justice. Or you can stop by and see me. I’m not sure how we can continue to function, but the work of the Court must go on, despite this horrible, horrible …”
Knight stopped again and gripped the table to stop herself from collapsing to the floor. Dellasandro quickly took her arm, but she motioned him away.

Knight rallied herself enough to call an end to the meeting and the room quickly cleared. Except for Sara Evans. She sat there, numb, staring at the spot where Knight had stood. The tears freely streamed down her face. Michael was dead. He had taken an appeal, acted very strangely for over a week, and now he was dead. Murdered. A robbery, they said. She didn’t believe the answer was that simple. But right now it didn’t matter. All that mattered was she had lost someone very close to her. Someone who, under different circumstances perhaps, she might have gladly spent her life with. She put her head down on the table as the sobs burst from her.

From the doorway, Elizabeth Knight watched her.

A little over three hours after Billy Hawkins had announced his brother’s death, John Fiske was walking through the hallways of the D.C. morgue, a white-coated intake specialist leading the way. Fiske had had to show identification and prove to the man that he was really Michael Fiske’s brother. He had been prepared for that and had brought pictures of the two together. He had tried to reach his father before leaving town, but there had been no answer. Fiske had driven by the house, but no one had been home. He left a note for his dad, including no details. He had to be sure it was his brother, and the only way to be certain was where he was headed.

Fiske was surprised when they entered an office, and even more puzzled when the morgue attendant pulled a Polaroid from a file and held it out to him.

“I’m not identifying a photo. I want to see the body.”

“That’s not the procedure we have here, sir. We’re in the process of installing a video system so that IDs can be made via remote television, but it’s not functional yet. Until then, it’s done with a Polaroid.”

“Not this time.”

The man tapped the photo against his palm as though trying to arouse Fiske’s curiosity in it.
“Most people would much prefer to do it with a photograph. This is very unusual.”

“I’m not ‘most people,’ and having a brother murdered is unusual. At least it is for me.”

The attendant picked up the phone and conveyed instructions to prepare the body for viewing. Then he opened the door to his office, motioning Fiske to follow him. After a short walk, they entered a small room that carried a medicinal smell several times stronger than that in a hospital. In the center of the room stood a gurney. From under the white sheet rose a number of edges representing the head, nose, shoulders, knees and feet of the body. As Fiske headed toward the gurney, he clutched at the same irrational hope that everyone in his position would leap for: that the person under the sheet was not his brother, that his family was still reasonably intact.

As the attendant gripped the edge of the sheet, Fiske slid one hand around the metal side of the gurney and squeezed tightly. As the sheet rose upward, exposing the head and upper torso of the deceased, Fiske closed his eyes, looked upward and mouthed a silent prayer. He took a deep breath, held it, opened his eyes and then looked down. Before he knew it, he was nodding.

He tried to look away but couldn’t. Even a stranger could have looked at the slope of the forehead, the arrangement of the eyes and mouth, the flow of the chin, and concluded that the two men held some close familial bond.
“That’s my brother.”

The sheet was replaced and the attendant gave Fiske the ID card to sign.
“Other than the items the police have retained, we’ll release his personal effects to you.”
The attendant glanced at the gurney.
“We’ve had a busy week, and we’re backed up with bodies, but we should have autopsy results fairly soon. This one looks pretty simple anyway.”

Anger flared on Fiske’s face but then quickly faded. The man was not paid to be tactful.
“Did they find the bullet that killed him?”

“Only the autopsy can determine cause of death.”

“Don’t bullshit me.”
The attendant looked startled.
“I saw the exit wound on the left side of his head. Did they find it?”

“No. At least not yet.”

“I heard it was a robbery,”
said Fiske. The attendant nodded.
“He was found in his car?”

“Right, wallet gone. We had to trace his identity through his license plate.”

“So if a robbery, why didn’t they take the car? Carjacking’s the hot thing right now. Beat the victim’s ATM password out of him or her, kill them, take the car and hit a few banks, load up on money, ditch the car and go on to the next one. Why not with this one?”

“I don’t know anything about that.”

“Who’s handling the case?”

“It happened in D.C. Must be D.C. Homicide Division.”

“My brother was a federal employee. United States Supreme Court. Maybe the FBI will be involved too.”

“Again, I don’t know anything about that.”

“I’d like the name of the detective at D.C. Homicide.”

The attendant didn’t answer, but jotted some notes down in the file, perhaps hoping that if he remained quiet Fiske would just go away.

“I’d really like that name, please,”
Fiske said, edging a step closer.

The attendant finally sighed, pulled a business card out of the file and handed it to Fiske.
“Buford Chandler. He’ll probably want to talk to you anyway. He’s a good guy. Prob-ably’ll catch the person who did this.”

Fiske looked briefly at the card before putting it in his coat pocket. He settled a clear-eyed gaze on the attendant.
“Oh, we’re going to get whoever did this.”
The odd tone in his voice made the attendant look up from his file.
“Now I’d like some time alone with my brother.”

The attendant glanced over at the gurney.
“Sure, I’ll be outside. Just let me know when you’re done.”

After the man left, Fiske pulled a chair next to the gurney and sat down. He had not shed a tear since learning of his brother’s death. He told himself it was because positive ID had not been made yet, but now it had and still no tears. On the drive up, he had caught himself counting out-of-state license plates, a game the brothers had played growing up. A game Mike Fiske had usually won.

He lifted the side of the sheet and took one of his brother’s hands. It was cold, but the fingers were supple. He squeezed them gently. Fiske looked down at the concrete floor and closed his eyes. When he reopened them a few minutes later only two tears had collected on the concrete. He quickly looked up and a gush of air came out of his lungs. It felt forced, all of it, and he suddenly felt unworthy to be here.

As a cop, he had sat with the parents of too many drunken kids who had wrapped themselves around a tree or telephone pole. He had consoled them, expressed empathy, even held them. He had truly believed that he had approached, even touched the depths of their despair. He often wondered what it would feel like when it happened to him. He plainly knew this was not it.

He forced himself to think about his parents. How exactly would he tell his father that his golden child was dead? And his mother? At least there was an easy answer to that question: He couldn’t and shouldn’t tell her.

Raised Catholic, but not a religious man, Fiske chose to speak with his brother instead of God. He pressed his brother’s hand against his chest and talked to him of things he was sorry for, of how much he loved him, how much he wanted him not to be dead, in case his brother’s spirit was lingering behind, waiting for this communication, this quiet rupture of guilt and remorse from his older brother. Then Fiske fell silent, his eyes closed again. He could hear each solid drum of his heart, a sound that was somehow dwarfed by the stillness of the body next to his.

The attendant poked his head in.
“Mr. Fiske, we need to take your brother on down. It’s been half an hour.”

Fiske rose and passed the attendant without a word. His brother’s body was going to a terrifying place, where strangers would forage through his remains for clues as to who had killed him. As they wheeled the gurney away, Fiske walked back out into the sunlight and left his little brother behind.

You’re sure you covered your tracks?”

Rayfield nodded into the phone.
“Every record of his being here has been expunged. I’ve already transferred all the personnel who saw Fiske to other facilities. Even if someone figures out somehow that he came here, there won’t be anyone left to tell them anything.”

“And no one saw you dump the body?”

“Vic drove his car back. I followed him. We picked a good place. The police will think it was a robbery. Nobody saw us. And even if they did, it’s not the sort of place where people are real cooperative with the law.”

“Nothing left in the car?”

“We took his wallet to further the robbery angle. His briefcase too. A map. There wasn’t anything else. Of course we filled the radiator back up with fluid.”

“And Harms?”

“He’s still in the hospital. Looks like he’s going to make it.”

“Damn. Just our luck.”

“Don’t sweat it. When he comes back here, we’ll deal with him. Weak heart and all, you never know what might happen to you.”

“Don’t wait too long. You can’t hit him in the hospital?”

“Too dangerous. Too many people around.”

“And you’ve got him well guarded?”

“He’s chained to the bed with a guard posted twenty-four hours a day outside his door. He’s being released tomorrow morning. By tomorrow night he’ll be dead. Vic’s already working on the details.”

“And there’s nobody out there who can help him? You’re sure?”

Rayfield laughed.
“Hell, no one even knows he’s there. He’s got nobody. Never has, never will.”

“No mistakes, Frank.”

“I’ll call you when he’s dead.”

*    *    *

Fiske sat in the car and cranked up the air-conditioning, which, in his fourteen-year-old Ford, merely caused the slow movement of muggy air from left to right. Sweat trickling down his face and staining his shirt collar, Fiske finally eased down the window as he stared at the building. Average-looking on the outside, it was not on the inside. There, the people spent all of their time searching for those who killed other people. And Fiske was trying to decide whether to join them in their pursuit or drive back home. He had identified his brother’s remains, his official duty as next of kin completed. He could go home, tell his father, make the funeral arrangements, see to his brother’s final affairs, bury him and then get on with his life. That’s what everyone else did.

Instead, Fiske pulled himself out of the car and into the muggy air, and entered the building at 300 Indiana Avenue, home to the D.C. Police Homicide Division. After passing through security and being directed by a uniformed police officer, he stopped at a desk. He had tried his father once again from the morgue, but still no answer. Frustrated, he was now also worried that his father had somehow found out and was on his way up here.

He looked down at the card the attendant at the morgue had given him.
“Detective Buford Chandler, please,”
he said, looking down at the young woman behind the desk.

“And you are?”
The sharp angle of her neck, and her superior tone, immediately made Fiske want to stuff her in one of her own desk drawers.

“John Fiske. Detective Chandler is investigating my brother’s … my brother’s murder. His name was Michael Fiske.”
She stared at him, no recognition on her features.
“He was a clerk at the Supreme Court,”
he added.

She glanced at some papers on her desk.
“And somebody killed him?”

“This is the Homicide Division, isn’t it?”
She settled her gaze back on him, her look of annoyance pronounced. He continued:
“Yes, somebody killed him”
— he glanced down at the nameplate on her desk —
“Ms. Baxter.”

“Well, what exactly can I do for you?”

“I’d like to see Detective Chandler.”

“Is he expecting you?”

Fiske leaned forward and spoke in a low voice.
“Not exactly, but — ”

“Then I’m afraid he’s not in,”
she said, cutting him off.

“I think if you put a call into — ”
Fiske stopped and watched as she turned away from him and started typing on her computer.
“Look, I really need to see Detective Chandler.”

She typed as she spoke.
“Let me educate you on the situation here, okay? We have lots of cases and not too many detectives. We don’t have time for every drop-in off the street. We have to have priorities. I’m sure you can understand that.”
Her voice drifted off as she looked at the computer screen.